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BEST THINGS 
FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 




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BEST THINGS 

FROM 

MVERICAN 

^^^^^ LITERATURE 

Edited by IRVING BACHELLER 



With numerous unique and original Illustrations, 
including fac-simile Reproductions of Authors^ MSS. 



NEW YORK 

THE CHRISTIAN HERALD 

LOUIS KLOPSCH, Proprietor 
J 899 



TVSTO COPIES RECEIVED. 

Library of Congress^ 
Office of the 

Dtu4~1B99 

Register of Copyrights^ 



50948 

Copyright 1899 by Louis Klopsch 



SECOND COPY, 






PREFACE 



^HE Editor of this volume has aimed to set forth in it the literary 
impulse of our own time, avoiding largely things that have gone stale 
in familiar anthologies. There are poems, there are speeches, there are 
chapters of fiction and of history that have a vital quality as infinite as 
God's truth, and are ever new, therefore, for all save the fool to whom 
there is nothing new. Many of these immortal things have succeeded from 
anthologer to anthologer by a sort of divine right, and some of them may be 
found herein. But this book also and largely reproduces the work of new 
writers — men and women who have not yet won the fame they merit. Inglorious 
obscurity now covers many a genius who shall write — nay, who may already 
have written — the novel or the poem that shall shortly go traveling from hand 
to hand around the earth and whose fame shall be everywhere. After all, they 
are the people of most importance always — they of the present who are making 
the things of the future. To them, and to many of greater fame whose courtesy 
has made this book possible, and to their publishers, the Editor makes grateful 
acknowledgment. 

Special acknowledgment is due to Robert H. Russell; The Robert Clarke 
Company; Harper & Brothers; Houghton, MifHin & Co.; Mark Twain; 
Bacheller, Johnson & Bacheller; Little, Brown & Co.; The Century Co.; 
Frederick A. Stokes Company; Bacheller Syndicate; Bowen-Merrill Co.; and 
D. Appleton & Co. 



INDEX TO THE SELECTIONS 



Across the Jumping Sand Hills 

Admiral, The Old 

Answer of the Sea, The 

Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," 

Wit and Wisdom from "The 
Battle Hymn of the Republic 
Bloom Was on the Alder and the 

Tassel on the Corn, The 
Board Fence Toses a Plank, A 
Bourget, Le ... 
Bud Zunts's Mail . . 
Camp, Song of the . 
Captain Mallinger 
Carpenter and His Son, The 
Chance, A Tale of Mere 
Conspiracy, The 
Daughter's Love, A 
Deacon's Daughter, The 

Death of Rodriguez, The 
Decoy Despatch, The 
Descent Into the Maelstrom, A 
Detail, A .... 
Dog on the Roof, The . 



Gilbert Parker .... 
Edmund Clarence Stedman 
John Langdon Heaton 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 
Julia Ward Howe . 



Donn Piatt 

F. Hopkinson Smith . 
Robert W. Chambers . 
Ruth McEnery Stuart . 
Bayard Taylor .... 
Harriet Prescott Spofiford . 
General Lew Wallace . 
Stephen Crane .... 
John Kendrick Bangs . 
Fitz James O'Brien . 
Marietta Holley ("Josiah Allen 

Wife") 

Richard Harding Davis 

Clinton Ross 

Edgar Allan Poe 

Stephen Crane .... 

Edward W. Townsend . 



PAGE 
1 06 
141 
362 

73 

37 
267 

17s 
81 

93 
75 
43 
69 
i8S 
301 

319 

17 

169 

241 

415 
229 



BEST THINGS FROAI AMERICAN LITERATURE 



Double Head and Single Heart 

Eunice and the Doll 

Father Damon's Temptation . 

Flying March, The 

Gates Ajar," A GHmpse from "The . 
"Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye 

May " 

Gettysburg, Speech at 

Golden Ingot, The 

Hayne, Reply to 

Heart of New England, The 

In Evidence 

Instinct, A Matter of 

In the Mouth of the Sea .... 

Invalid's Story, The 

It Is Not Death to Die .... 

Ivory Miniature, An 

'Jinin' Farms, The 

John's Trial 

Judges 

Language That Needs a Rest 
Laphams' Dilemma, The .... 

Le Bourget 

Life Lesson, A. 

Lincoln, Abraham 

Legend of Sonora, A 

Matter of Instinct, A 

Mother's Intuition, A 

Movement Cure for Rheumatism, The, 
Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Buzzard, 

Nature 

New England, The Heart of . . . 
New England Sunday, A . . . . 



Elisabeth Pullen 
Mary E. Wilkins . . 
Charles Dudley Warner 
W. L. Alden . . . 
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 

Paul Leicester Ford 
Abraham Lincoln 
Fitz James O'Brien . 
Daniel Webster . 
Edmund Clarence Stedman 
Charles Kelsey Gaines . 
Howard Fielding 
Edgar Allan Poe 
Mark Twain .... 
George Washington Bethune 
Arthur Grissom . 
Eugene Field 
Philander Deming . 
Charles Sumner . 
Willis Brooks Hawkins 
William Dean Howells . 
Robert W. Chambers . 
James Whitcomb Riley . 
Speech at Gettysburg . 
Hildegarde Hawthorne 
Howard Fielding . 
Louisa M. Alcott . . 
Robert J. Burdette . . 
Joel Chandler Harris . 
Ralph Waldo Emerson . 
Edmund Clarence Stedman 
Henry Ward Beecher . 



INDEX TO THE SELECTIONS 9 

PAGE 

Night Battle of the Revolution, A . S. Weir ^^litchell 153 

Night Before Thanksgiving, The . Sarah Orne Jevvett 127 

Night EleVator Man's Story, The E. W. Townsend . . . . . 232 

Night of Defeat, A Joseph A. Altsheler 387 

Ode Richard Watson Gilder . . . 353 

Odin Moore's Confession .... Julian Hawthorne 399 

Old Admiral, The Edmund Clarence Stedman . . 141 

Old Jones Is Dead Louise Chandler Moulton . .291 

Rainy Day, The Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 167 

Republic, Battle Hymn of the . . Julia Ward Howe j-ii 

Revelation, The, from "The Scarlet 

Letter" Nathaniel Hawthorne .... 255 

Rip Van Winkle Washington Irving 331 

Romance of the City Room, A . Elizabeth G. Jordan 347 

Rudgis and Grim jMaurice Thompson 219 

Scarlet Letter," The Revelation ; 

from "The Nathaniel Hawthorne .... 255 

Sickle of Fire, The Charles Kelsey Gaines .... 26 

Sky, The Richard Henry Stoddard . . . 253 

Smoke — Signifying Doubt . . . Donald G. Mitchell 213 

Sober, Industrious Poet, and How He 

Fared at Easter-time, The . . James L. Ford 33 

Song of the Camp, The .... Bayard Taylor ...... 93 

Speech in the Court House, Charles- 
town, Va John Brown '. 237 

Spelling Down the Master . . Edward Eggleston 120 

Story for a Child, A Bayard Taylor . . . . . . 118 

Tale of Mere Chance, A . . . . Stephen Crane 69 

Tell-tale Heart, The Edgar Allan Poe 248 

Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant .... 343 

Under the Lion's Paw Hamlin Garland 157 

Wauna, the Witch-maiden General Charles King .... 283 

Wreck of "The Ariel," The . . James Fenimore Cooper . . . 277 



INDEX TO THE AUTHORS 



Alcott, Louisa M. . 
Alden, W. L. . . 
Altsheler, Joseph A. 



Bangs, John Kendrick . , 
Beecher, Henry Ward 
Bethune, George Washington 
Burdette, Robert J. . . . 



Brown, John, of Ossawatomie 



Br}^ant, WilHam Cullen 
Chambers, Robert W. . 
Cooper, James Fenimore 
Crane, Stephen 



Davis, Richard Harding 
Deming, Philander 
Eggleston, Edward 
Emerson, Ralph Waldo 
Field, Eugene . 
Fielding, Howard . 



A Mother's Intuition .... 293 

The Flying March 112 

A Night of Defeat, from "A Her- 
ald of the West" .... 387 

The Conspiracy 185 

A New England Sunday . . . 203 
It Is Not Death to Die ... 235 
The Movement Cure for Rheum- 
atism 190 

His Last Speech in the Court 

House of Charlestown, Va. . 237 

Thanatopsis 343 

Le Bourget 175 

The Wreck of "The Ariel" ... 277 

A Detail 415 

A Tale of Mere Chance ... 69 

The Death of Rodriguez ... 17 

John's Trial 97 



Spelling Down the Master 

Nature 

The 'Ji"i" Farms . 
A Matter of Instinct . 



Ford, James L The Sober, Industrious Poet, and 

How He Fared at Easter 

Ford, Paul Leicester "Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye 

Mav" 



120 

311 

63 

195 

33 

145 



INDEX TO THE AUTHORS 



Gaines, Charles Kelsey .... 

Garland, Hamlin 

Gilder, Richard Watson .... 

Grissom, Arthur 

Harris, Joel Chandler 

Hawkins, Willis Brooks .... 
Hawthorne, Hildegarde .... 

Hawthorne, Julian 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel .... 

Heaton, John Langdon .... 
Holley, Marietta ("Josiah Allen's 

Wife") 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell .... 

Howe, Julia Ward 

Howells, William Dean .... 

Irving, Washington 

Jewett, Sarah Orne 

Jordan, Elizabeth G 

King, General Charles .... 
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth . 

Mitchell, Donald G 

Mitchell, S. Weir 

Moulton, Louise Chandler 

O'Brien, Fitz James 

Parker, Gilbert 

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart . . . . 
Piatt, Donn 



In Evidence 

The Sickle of Fire . . . 
Under the Lion's Paw . 

Ode 

An Ivory Miniature 

Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox, and Mr 

Buzzard .... 
Language That Needs a Rest 
A Legend of Sonora 
Odin Moore's Confession . 
The Revelation ; from "The Scarlet 

Letter" 

The Answer of the Sea . 

The Deacon's Daughter 

Wit and Wisdom from "The Auto 

crat of the Breakfast Table" 
Battle Hymn of the Republic . 
The Laphams' Dilemma 
Rip Van Winkle .... 
The Night Before Thanksgiving 
A Romance of the City Room . 
Wauna, the Witch-maiden . 

The Rainy Day 

Smoke — Signifying Doubt . 
A Night Battle of the Revolution 
Old Jones is Dead .... 
A Daughter's Love (From "The 

Golden Ingot") 
Across the Jumping Sand Hills 
A Glimpse From "The Gates Ajar" 
The Bloom Was on the Alder and 

the Tassel on the Corn 



357 



Z7 



12 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

PAGE 

Poe, Edgar Allan The Tell-tale Heart 248 

Pullen, Elisabeth DTDuble Head and Single Heart . 273 

Riley, James Whitcomb .... A Life Lesson 385 

Ross, Clinton The Decoy Despatch . . . . 169 

Smith, F. Hopkinson A Board Fence Loses a Plank . . 267 

Spofford, Harriet Prescott . Captain Mallinger 75 

Stedman, Edmtind Clarence . . The Heart of New England . . 200 

The Old Admiral 141 

Stoddard, Richard Henry .... The Sky 253 

Stuart, Ruth McEneiy .... Bud Zunts's Mail 81 

Sumner, Charles Judges 363 

Taylor, Bayard The Song of the Camp .... 93 

A Story for a Child 118 

Thompson, Maurice Rudgis and Grim 219 

Townsend, Edward W The Dog on the Roof .... 229 

The Night Elevator Man's Story . 232 

Twain, Mark The Invalid's Story 57 

Wallace, General Lew The Carpenter and His Son . . 43 

Warner, Charles Dudley .... Father Damon's Temptation . . 39 

Webster, Daniel Reply to Hayne 315 

Wilkins, Mar}^ E Eunice and the Doll . . . . 369 



INDEX TO THE ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Alcott, Louisa M. ......... 294 

Altsheler, Joseph A. 386, 

Bacheller, Irving . . ...... Frontispiece 

Barr, Amelia E. . ......... 396 

Beecher, Henry Ward . ........ 204^"^ 

Bethtine, George Washington ........ 236 

Brown, John ........... 238 

Bryant, William Cullen ......... 344' 

Chambers, Robert W. . . . . . . . . .174 

Cooper, James Fenimore . ....... 278 ^"^ 

Crane, Stephen . . ......... 68 

Davis, Richard Harding . . . . . . . . 16 

Death of Rodriguez, The ........ 21 

Deming, Philander .......... 96 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo . . . . , . . . .312 

Fielding, Howard (Charles W. Hooke) ...... 194 

Ford, James L. .......... 32 

Ford, Paul Leicester .......... 144 

Gaines, Charles Kelsey ......... 24 

Gilder, Richard Watson . 352 

Harris, Joel Chandler, Home of . . . -- . . . . 89 

Hawkins, Willis Brooks ......... 162 

Hawthorne, Hildegarde 366 

Hawthorne, Julian .......... 400 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel ......... 254 

Hawthorne's Birthplace, Nathaniel ....... 257 



4 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



PAl, 



Heaton, John Langdon . . ....... 362 

Holley, Marietta (" Josiah Allen's Wife ") . ..... 320 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell ... ...... 322' 

Home of Joel Chandler Harris . . . . . . . .89 

Hooke, Charles W. (Howard Fielding) 194'^'^ 

Howe, Julia Ward . . . . . . . ... • '/'^ 

Howells, William Dean ......... 48 

Irving, Washington .......... 330 

Jewett, Sarah Orne .......... 128 

King, General Charles 282 

Lincoln, Abraham .......... 350 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth . . . . . . . . 166 

Manse, The (Nathaniel Hawthorne's Home) 261 

Mitchell, Donald G 214 

Mitchell, Dr. S. Weir 152 

Moulton, Louise Chandler ......... 290 

Piatt, Donn ........... 36 

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart 356 

Poe, Edgar Allan . . . . . . . . - . . 240 

Poe, Edgar Allan, Bust of . 247 

Riley, James Whitcomb . . . . . . . . 384 

Ross, Clinton . .......... 168 

Smith, F. Hopkinson ......... 266 

Spofford, Harriet Prescott 74 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence . . . . . . . . 140 

Stoddard, Richard Henry 252 

Stuart, Ruth McEnery . 82'^ 

Sumner, Charles .......... 364 

Taylor, Bayard . . . . = . . . . . . 94 

Thompson, Maurice .......... 22Q 

Townsend, Edward W. . 228 

Twain, Mark . .......... 56 

Wallace, General Lew ......... 44 



INDEX TO THE ILLUSTRATIONS 



T5 



I'AGE 

Warner, Charles Dudley . . . . . . . .38 

Webster, Daniel . . . . . . . . . 314 

Wilkins, Mar}^ E. 368 

Whittier, John Greenleaf . . . . . . . . 412 



FAC-SIMILES OF AUTHORS' MSS. 

Barr, Amelia E., Pages from "The Bow of Orange Ribbon" . . 395 

Jewett, Sarah Orne, " The Night Before Thanksgiving " . . . 127 

Wallace, General Lew, A page from "Ben Hur " .... 47 

Whittier, John Greenleaf, " In School-days" . . . . . 411 

Wilkins, Mary- E., A page from one of her stories .... 383 





RICHARD HARDING DAVlb 




THE DEATH OF RODRIGUEZ 

FROM "CUBA IN WAR TIME" 

BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 

(Born at Philadelphia, Pa., April i8th, 1864) 

DOLFO RODRIGUEZ was the only son of a Cuban farmer, who lives 
nine miles outside of Santa Clara, beyond the hills that surround that 
city to the ngrth. 

When the revolution broke out young Rodriguez joined the 
insurgents, leaving his father and mother and two sisters at the farm. 
He was taken in December of 1896 by a force of the Guardia Civile, the 
corps d'elite of the Spanish army, and defended himself when they tried to cap- 
ture him, wounding three of them with his machete. 

He was tried by a military court for bearing arms against the government 
and sentenced to be shot by a fusillade some morning before sunrise. 

Previous to execution he was confined in the military prison of Santa Clara 
with thirty other insurgents, all of whom were sentenced to be shot, one after the 
other, on mornings following the execution of Rodriguez. 

His execution took place the morning of the nineteenth of January at a place 
a half-mile distant from the city, on the great plain that stretches from the forts 
out to the hills, beyond which Rodriguez had lived for nineteen years. At the 
time of his death he was twenty years old. 

I witnessed his execution and what follows is an account of the way he went 
to death. The young man's friends could not be present, for it was impossible for 
them to show themselves in that crowd and that place with wisdom or without 
distress, and I like to think that, although Rodriguez could not know it, there 
was one person present when he died who felt keenly for him, and who was a 
sympathetic though unwilling spectator. 

There had been a full moon the night preceding the execution, and when 
the squad of soldiers marched out from town it was still shining brightly through 

Copyright, 1898, by Robert H. Russell. 

17 



i8 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

the mists, although it was past five o'clock. It lighted a plain two miles in extent 
broken by ridges and gullies and covered with thick, high grass and with bunches 
of cactus and palmetto. In the hollow of the ridges the mist lay like broad lakes 
of water, and on one side of the plain stood the walls of the old town. On the 
other rose hills covered with royal palms that showed white in the moonlight, like 
hundreds of marble columns. A line of tiny camp fires that the sentries had 
built during the night stretched between the forts at regular intervals and burned 
brightly. 

But as the light grew stronger and the moonlight faded these were stamped 
out, and when the soldiers came in force the moon was a white ball in the sky, 
without radiance, the fires had sunk to ashes, and the sun had not yet risen. 

So, even when the men were formed into three sides of a hollow square, 
they were scarcely able to distinguish one another in -the uncertain light of the 
morning. 

There were about three hundred soldiers in the formation. They belonged 
to the Volunteers, and they deployed upon the plain with their band in front, 
playing a jaunty quickstep, while their officers galloped from one side to the 
other through the grass, seeking out a suitable place for the execution, while 
the band outside the line still played merrily. 

A few men and boys, who had been dragged out of their beds by the music, 
moved about the ridges, behind the soldiers, half-clothed, unshaven, sleepy-eyed, 
yawning and stretching themselves nervously and shivering in the cool, damp air 
of the morning. 

Either owing to discipline or on account of the nature of their errand, or 
because the men were still but half awake, there was no talking in the ranks, and 
the soldiers stood motionless, leaning on their rifles, with their backs turned 
to the town, looking out across the plain to the hills. 

The men in the crowd behind them were also grimly silent. They knew 
that whatever they might say would be twisted into a word of sympathy for the 
condemned man or a protest against the government. So no one spoke ; even 
the oiBcers gave their orders in gruff whispers, and the men in the crowd did not 
mix together, but looked suspiciously at one another and kept apart. 

As the light increased a mass of people came hurrying from the town with 
two black figures leading them, and the soldiers drew up at attention, and part 
of the double line fell back and left an opening in the square. 

With us a condemned man walks only the short distance from his cell to the 
scafifold or the electric chair, shielded from sight by the prison walls ; and it often 
occurs even then that the short journey is too much for his strength and courage. 

But the merciful Spaniards on this morning made the prisoner walk for 
over a half-mile across the broken surface of the fields. I expected to find the 



RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 19 

man, no matter what his strength at other times might be, stumbHng and fakering 
on this cruel journey ; but as he came nearer I saw that he led all the others, that 
the priests on either side of him were taking two steps to his one, and that they 
were tripping on their gowns and stumbling over the hollows, in their efforts 
to keep pace with him as he walked, erect and soldierly, at a quickstep in ad- 
vance of them. 

He had a handsome, gentle face of the peasant type ; a light, pointed beard ; 
great wistful eyes, and a mass of curly black hair. He was shockingly young 
for such a sacrifice, and looked more like a Neapolitan than a Cuban. You 
could imagine him sitting on the quay at Naples or Genoa, lolling in the sun 
and showing his white teeth when he laughed. He wore a new scapula around 
his neck, hanging outside his linen blouse. 

It seems a petty thing to have been pleased with at such a time, but I 
confess to have felt a thrill of satisfaction when I saw, as the Cuban passed me, 
that he held a cigarette between his lips, not arrogantly nor with bravado, but 
with the nonchalance of a man who meets his punishment fearlessly, and who 
will let his enemies see that they can kill but cannot frighten him. 

It was very quickly finished, with rough and, but for one frightful blunder, 
with merciful swiftness. The crowd fell back when it came to the square, and 
the condemned man, the priests and the firing squad of six young Volunteers 
passed in and the line closed behind them. 

The ofBcer who had held the cord that bound the Cuban's arms behind him 
and passed across his breast, let it fall On the grass and drew his sword, and 
Rodriguez dropped his cigarette from his lips and bent and kissed the cross 
which the priest held up before him. 

The elder of the priests moved to one side and prayed rapidly in a loud 
whisper, while the other, a younger man, walked away behind the firing squad 
and covered his face with his hands and turned his back. They had both spent 
the last twelve hours with Rodriguez in the chapel of the prison. 

The Cuban walked to where the officer directed him to stand, and turned his 
back to the square and faced the hills and the road across them which led to his 
father's farm. 

As the officer gave the first command he straightened himself as far as the 
cords would allow, and held up his head and fixed his eyes immovably on the 
morning light which had just begun to show above the hills. 

He made a picture of such pathetic helplessness, but of such courage and 
dignity, that he reminded me on the instant of that statue of Nathan Hale which 
stands in the City Hall Park, above the roar of Broadway, and teaches a lesson 
daiiY to the hurrying crowds of money-makers who pass beneath. 

The Cuban's arms were bound, as are those of the statue, and he stood 



20 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

firmly, with his weight resting on his heels like a soldier on parade, and with 
his face held up fearlessly, as is that of the statue. But there was this difference, 
that Rodriguez, while probably as willing to give six lives for his country as was 
the American rebel, being only a peasant, did not think to say so, and he will 
not, in consequence, live in bronze during the lives of many men, but will be 
remembered only as one of thirty Cubans, one of whom was shot at Santa Clara 
on each succeeding day at sunrise. 

The officer had given the order, the men had raised their pieces, and the 
condemned man had heard the click of the triggers as they were pulled back, 
and he had not moved. And then happened one of the most cruelly refined, 
though unintentional, acts of torture that one can very well imaging. As the 
officer slowly raised his sword, preparatory to giving the signal, one of the 
mounted officers rode up to him and pointed out silently what I had already 
observed with some satisfaction, that the firing squad were so placed that when 
they fired they would shoot several of the soldiers stationed on the extreme end 
of the square. 

Their captain motioned his men to lower their pieces, and then walked 
across the grass and laid his hand on the shoulder of the waiting prisoner. 

It is not pleasant to think what that shock must have been. The man had 
steeled himself to receive a volley of bullets in his back. He believed that in the 
next instant he would be in another world ; he had heard the command given, 
had heard the click of the Mausers as the locks caught, and then, at that supreme 
moment, a human hand had been laid upon his shoulder and a voice spoke in 
his ear. 

You would expect that any man who had been snatched back to life in such 
a fashion would start and tremble at the reprieve, or would break down altogether, 
but this boy turned his head steadily and followed with his eyes the direction of 
the officer's sword, then nodded his head gravely, and, with his shoulders squared, 
took up a new position, straightened his back again, and once more held himself 
erect. 

As an exhibition of self-control this should surely rank above feats of 
heroism performed in battle, where there are thousands of comrades to give in- 
spiration. This man was alone, in the sight of the hills he knew, with only 
enemies about him, with no source to draw on for strength but that which lay 
within himself. 

The officer of the firing squad, mortified by his blunder, hastily whipped up 
his sw^ord, the men once more leveled their rifles, the sword rose, dropped, and 
the men fired. At the report the Cuban's head snapped back almost between his 
shoulders, but his body fell slowly, as though some one had pushed him gently 
forward from behind and he had stumbled. 



RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 21 

He sank on his side in the wet grass without a struggle or sound, and did 
not move again. 

It was difficult to beheve that he meant to he there, that it could be ended 
so without a word, that the man in the linen suit would not get up on his feet 




THK DEATH OF RODRIGUEZ 
From " Cuba in War Time," by Richard Harding Davis. Copyright, iS 



by Robert Howard Russell 



and continue to walk on over the hills, as he apparently had started to do, to his 
home ; that there was not a mistake somewhere, or that at least some one would 
be sorry or say something or run to pick him up. 

But, fortunately, he did not need help, and the priests returned — the 
younger one with the tears running down his face — and donned their vestments 



22 BEST THINGS FRO^I A^IERICAX LITERATURE 

and read a brief requiem for his soul, while the squad stood uncovered, and the 
men in hollow square shook their accoutrements into place, and. shifted their 
pieces, and got ready for the order to march, and the band began again with the 
same quickstep which the fusillade had interrupted. 

The figure lay still on the grass untouched, and no one seemed to remem- 
ber that it had walked there itself, or noticed that the cigarette still burned, 
a tiny ring of living fire, at the place where the figure had first stood. 

The figure was a thing of the past, and the squad shook itself like a great 
snake, and then broke into little pieces and started off jauntily, stumbling in the 
high grass and striving to keep step to the music. 

The officers led it past the figure in the linen suit, and so close to it that the 
file closers had to part with the column to avoid treading on it. Each soldier as 
he passed turned and^looked down on it, some craning their necks curiously, 
others giving a careless glance, and some without any interest at all, as they 
would have looked at a house by the roadside or a passing cart or a hole in the 
road. 

One young soldier caught his foot in a trailing vine, and fell forward just op- 
posite to it. He grew very red when his comrades giggled at him for his awk- 
wardness. The crowd of sleepy spectators fell in on either side of the band. 
They had forgotten it, too, and the priests put their vestments back in the bag 
and wrapped their heavy cloaks about them, and hurried off after the others. 

Every one seemed to have forgotten it except two men, who came slowly 
toward it from the town, driving a bullock cart that bore an unplaned colBn, each 
with a cigarette between his lips, and with his throat wrapped in a shawl to keep 
out the morning mists. 

At that moment the sun, which had shown some promise of its coming in the 
glow above the hills, shot up suddenly from behind them in all the splendor of 
the tropics, a fierce, red disc of heat, and filled the air with warmth and light. 

The bayonets of the retreating column flashed in it, and at the sight of it a 
rooster in a farmyard near by crowed vigorously and a dozen bugles answered 
the challenge with the brisk, cheery notes of the reveille, and from all parts of the 
city the church bells jangled out the call for early mass, and the whole world of 
Santa Clara seemed to stir and stretch itself and to wake to welcome the day 
just begun. 

But as I fell in at the rear of the procession and looked back, the figure of 
the young Cuban, who was no longer a part of the world of Santa Clara, was 
asleep in the wet grass, with his motionless arms still tightly bound behind him, 
with the scapula twisted awry across his face and the blood from his breast sink- 
ing into the soil he had tried to free. 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 23 



IN EVIDENCE 

BY CHARLES KELSEY GAINES 

(Born at Royal ton, N. Y., October 21, 1854) 

Yes, Jedge, I'll try — 
I'll tell ye God's own truth ; but 'tain't no use. 
I hain't got no defense, I can't make no excuse. 

I'm mighty nigh 
To breakin' down right here. O Jedge, it's hell, 
Hell that I'm goin' through. I know I've got ter tell — 

An' Jedge, I'll try. 

That ain't the wust — 
The sentence an' the hangin' an' the rest. 
Ef dyin' means fergittin', dyin', Jedge, is best. 

An' sence I must, 
I'll tell it straight. But, oh, my God ! my eyes 
Sees bloody, night an' day, 'n' my ears is deaved with cries : 

An' that's the wust. 

An' Jedge, 'twa'n't drink — 
I'm desput rough, I know, but that ain't me : 
I don't drink tendin' switch, an' never takes a spree. 

Jedge, ye sha'n't think 
I'd wreck a hundred souls fer a pot o' beer; 
'Tain't no excuse fer sleepin', but, 'fore God, I sweer 

I wa'n't in drink. 

She were so sick — 
My little gal ; an' Vic were clean wore out — 
Vic, she's my wife, an' she ain't noway stout. 

I says to Vic, 
"You jest lay down, an' I'll set up ter-night." 
'Twa'n't right ter take the resk, but Vic were wild an' white, 

An' Sis so sick. 




CHARLES KELSEY GAINES 



24 



CHARLES KELSEY GAINES 25 

Nex" night 'twere wuss. 
The neighbors said they'd help, but none come nigh ; 
An' Sis were faihn' fast, an' \'ic did naught but cry — 

I had ter nuss. 
Come day, I source could stan', an' axed the boss 
Ter let me off jest onct ; but he were jalous cross, 

An' gi' me a cuss. 

My eyes would shet — 
I stomped an' tried ter count, but scurce could think ; 
I'd glower an' stare an' start, an' still they'd daze an' blink. 

I dassent set: 
I danced an' prayed an' sweated in the cold. 
An' cussed an' groun' my teeth ; Jedge, I did wark ter hold, 

But they would shet. 

'Twere growin' dark — 
That's 'arly 'long o' Chrismus, as ye know : 
I thought I heered my pardner wadin' through the snow, 

An' stopped ter hark. 
Thinks I, "O God in Heaven! at larst he's come; 
This orful day is ended ; I kin steer fer hum. 

Lord ! ain't it dark !" 

Then, fer a spell, 
I kind o' los' myself — yit heered the train — 
The whistle went a-screechin' through my whirlin' brain — 

I heered the bell. 

Jedge, I jumped like mad an' set the switch : 

1 seen I set it wrong ; the train were in the ditch. 

An' I in hell. 

Ther ain't no more — 
'Cept Sis, she's dead, an' Vic's gone ravin' mad : 
Ef I were one or t'other 'twouldn't seem so bad — 

P'r'aps that's in store. 
Manslaughter, did ye say, Jedge? Well, that's right: 
The verdick's jest. But. Jedge, God's verdick ain't so light — 

My sleepin's o'er. 




26 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

THE SICKLE OF FIRE 

BY CHARLES KELSEY GAINES 

T is a fact not generally known, outside strictly scientific circles at least, 
that there exists an element (technically called Hydropyrogen, symbol 
Hp) possessing qualities of such a nature that its more abundant pro- 
duction, or any recklessness in use, might imperil the human race. 
Happily, in its pure state, in which alone it is dangerous, this substance 
is very rare ; indeed, only one specimen is now known to exist, and 
that is kept hermetically sealed in thick glass. Its name never appears in the 
ordinary text-books — for prudential reasons. 

There are more of these formidable secrets in the laboratories of our biol- 
ogists and chemists than most people suspect. Few, until very recently, were 
aware that in a frail glass tube, not too scrupulously guarded, in the very heart 
of the great American metropolis, there are living, malignant germs of Asiatic 
cholera wliich, if set free, might cause an epidemic that would cost millions of 
lives. And there are other things in that lockless cabinet quite as bad. There 
exist, also, poisons, the formulae for which are never published, and explosives 
that no chemist dare compound save in the minutest quantities. Many of these 
are altogether unknown to the ordinary student ; only the well-tried specialist 
has knowledge of them. 

But return to hydropyrogen. It is obtained, but only with the greatest 
difficulty, from the smoke products of a certain kind of sea-weed. Even in this 
the element is not always present. Out of a hundred specimens incinerated and 
analyzed, ninety-nine would probably show no trace of it ; and when it does occur, 
few are the chemists able to detect, much less separate, it — a most fortunate cir- 
cumstance. 

Hydropyrogen, as developed from this sea-weed when burned under the ac- 
tion of an electric current (Tesla's) of the highest tension, is an almost impalpa- 
ble gas, the lightest yet discovered. It diffuses rapidly, and easily permeates 
every known substance except indurated glass. When subjected to a process 
similar to that by which other gases are liquefied — a combination of tremendous 
pressure with extreme cold — it suddenly solidifies, falling in a heap of slender, 
needle-like crystals of a vivid ruby color. This experiment has been successfully 
carried through only three times. The crystals thus obtained may be preserved 
for almost any length of time, provided they are kept absolutely free from moist- 
ure ; hence they are sealed in heavy tubes of indurated glass. In the darkness 



CHARLES KELSEY GAINES 27 

these crystals gleam with a fiery, quivering phosphorescence, comparable only 
to. the shifting colors sometimes seen in the aurora borealis. Indeed, it is prob- 
ably of the same essential nature, being caused by induced currents streaming 
through the vacuum tubes in which this unstable and intensely energetic agent 
is encased. 

I have said that hydropyrogen is dangerous to the safety of the world. This 
is due to its extraordinary effect in decomposing and inflaming water. Not that 
it is difficult to decompose water ; that is done every day by familiar processes ; 
but there is no other agent which exhibits so terrible a potency — no other which 
so defies control. 

Its action may be explained by a familiar illustration. A child sets on end 
a line of dominoes, separated by spaces of about an inch. He pushes over the 
nearest, and the whole line goes down with a swift crash, each unbalancing the 
next till all are fallen. Just so with a series of molecules ; the dissolution of one 
breaks up those next adjacent, when once the action is started. Such is the oper- 
ation of all explosives, and of many poisons, e. g., snake venom. There seems 
to be scarcely any limit to the effect which may be produced by an infinitesimal 
portion of the disturbing agent, provided it has a continuous field of suitable ma- 
terial on which to act. 

How fearful may be the efifect of hydropyrogen if indiscreetly used, no living 
man can testify as I can. Why do I tell the story? Because some vague hints 
have already reached the public through certain Canadian papers ; and if the 
matter is to be agitated at all, the warning lesson should be read in full. 

It occurred only a few months ago. I had been studying for several years 
under Professor O. D. McKazy, the discoverer of hydropyrogen and the only man 
who has ever succeeded in producing the crystals. I had assisted him in his ex- 
periments — often a trying ordeal — and was deep in his confidence. We had 
already used the crystals on the contents of a large tank in an enclosed court, 
with startling results. The professor now wished to experiment on a much larger 
scale, which could be done with safety only in an uninhabited region. He had 
heard of a small lake suitable for the purpose, in British America, among the 
mountains near the Pacific Coast, and thither we proceeded. 

Our journey, though not without hardship, was accomplished without mis- 
chance. We encamped, with our Indian guides, about two miles from the lake, 
which we first visited by day to make sure of the trail. Then at night, leaving 
our Indians — whom we never saw afterward — we stole with feverish eagerness 
through the black darkness of the evergreens, and at last emerged on the ledges 
that overhung the lake. 

It lay at some depth below, banked with clifTs on every side, reflecting the 
black sky and the sparkling stars. Nearly opposite, a little white cascade drew a 



28 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

broad chalk-mark down the dusky wall, and we could faintly hear its chilly 
dashings. The place was like a well, and it was said to have no outlet. 

Dropping upon our hands and knees we crept out on a jutting bluff, and the 
professor tossed down a pebble. The splash shattered the reflected sky ; then its 
stars returned, but waved and blinked as the ripples circled outward. 

With great precaution the professor now broke the tube containing the 
crystals, and hastily cast it down after the pebble. As it reached the surface, 
along with the splash a faint hiss was audible. For an instant fiery worms 
wriggled and darted about. Then a little ruby cloud appeared in the water. It 
grew till it glowed like the sunset. A seething sound was heard, and we per- 
ceived that the hue was caused by an infinitude of little fiery bubbles ; and as they 
rose and burst, a pale blue flame began to play above the water. Pale, but hot — 
horribly hot. We could feel its withering blast even where wq stood. It 
mounted higher ; it towered above us. 

"Run! run!" screamed the professor. And we ran as if hell had opened at 
our feet. 

Even so, our delay had wellnigh cost our lives. Breathless, scorched, shud- 
dering, we reached the brow of the mountain. Here we lay flat,' and shielding 
our faces peered back over the edge. 

All the water was now red as sun-shot wine ; the whole lake was seething 
like a caldron. The rocky walls shone ruddy with the reflection ; or, was it pos- 
sible that they were growing red with the heat? The blue flames united from 
all parts of the surface, and rose to the sky in a tall, faint, wavering column, much 
like the flame of an alcohol lamp, but half a mile high. 

And the heat — oh ! the heat was blinding. Our flesh was blistered ; the 
very hair upon our heads was crinkling, burning. Crazy with pain and terror 
we rolled down the slope, leaped, ran, plunged, fell, and at last brought up in a 
deep ravine near the foot of the mountain, where a considerable stream gushed 
from a cavern. How cool and comforting its plashing seemed ! 

We now lay in the shadow of the hill ; but just over our heads streamed the 
blue light and consuming ardor of that fiery column from which we had fled, 
glinting upon the rocks and withering the scanty vegetation for miles around. 
We saw acres of stunted evergreens below us. shrinking, crisping to tinder, in 
that inordinate glow; then the dry needles sparkled, and here and there a tree 
sprouted up a fountain of red flame. Soon the whole forest was ablaze beyond 
us, and our ravine was in shadow no longer. 

Then we crept back into the cavern of the roaring stream, far under the 
mountain, finding precarious foothold by the margin of the water, till at last only 
a faint glow showed the opening by which we had entered. Here the rugged 
roof vaulted higher, and was lost in darkness. We sunk prone on a shelf of rock 



CHARLES KELSEY GAINES 29 

beside the gurgling torrent ; the spray dashed over our aching Hmbs, and wc 
found reHef. 

But the place was full of noises. Not merely the voice of the pouring waters 
that moaned and echoed everywhere. More and more frequent came rumblings, 
followed by a sound like heavy thunder, and a tremor as if the mountain shud- 
dered to its roots. Doubtless, the raging furnace above was cracking the clifYs 
that walled the lake ; the overheated ledges were bursting. 

I perspired under the raining spray ; it seemed to me that the floor on which 
I lay was growing warmer. I laved my hand in the running water, but jerked it 
back with a cry ; the stream was scalding hot ! A ruddy sparkle seethed in its 
current ; the vault above me was becoming faintly visible ; as I gazed, the fan- 
tastic cavern dome grew rosy as the morning sky. 

With a scream of terror I sprang toward the entrance ; a great light flamed 
behind me ; a strong gust of fire and wind swept me onward, till I found myself 
fallen on the bank of the ravine outside. A pale blue blow-pipe flame went hiss- 
ing past me. With it came shrieks of agony more terrible than all the groanings 
of the tormented hill — shrieks of human anguish — and a strange ape-like figure 
was flung beside me and lay writhing. It was the professor, my friend, but 
seared and branded almost beyond recognition. His clothing was burned away ; 
of his straggling locks and black silky beard not a hair remained. His long arms 
twitched, and his slender fingers clutched the parched, crumbling moss as he lay 
in pain inexpressible. Thus Science had rewarded her most gifted votary. 

Yet even in that supreme moment he was not forgetful. '"Twas the out- 
let !" he gasped. "The ferment has worked through. Oh, my God ! Run ! 
Cut off the stream or the world is lost." 

The situation was so tremendous that for an instant I could not grasp it. T 
stood motionless as if I had not heard. 

He sprang up and pushed me. In the anguish of his soul the torment of 
his body was forgotten. 

"The sea !" he wailed. "O God ! O God ! Cut it off from the sea !" 

He was an atheist, but he called upon God. Many times in that awful hour 
he called upon God. It was not profanity ; it was the elemental cry of the human 
soul in its despair. It is the cry that will be heard on the Day of Judgment ! It 
is the cry of the damned. 

The Day of Judgment ! It was upon us. The last trump had sounded ; the 
earth was to be consumed, and its oceans would be as oil in that mighty con- 
flagration. 

I leaped down the ravine. Already the upper waters of the stream were 
burned away, and its bed was dry and hot. Yet such speed did I make in that 
mad, desperate race that I almost overtook the fleeing torrent which flowed and 



30 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

flamed before me. Then suddenly my strength gave way, my hmbs sunk under 
me, and I fell like a stricken animal ! For some moments I lay shrouded in 
deadly faintness, incapable of thought. 

Then, with a wrench of effort, I sat up, giddy and weak. I found myself on 
the brink of a vast precipice — three steps more would have ended all — where the 
torrent had dropped its foaming waters through a sheer descent of more than a 
hundred feet. 

But the torrent was gone. Only a little fire still dripped from the verge, and 
splashed in liquid flashes upon the rocks below. And the pale light and searing 
heat no longer streamed down from the mountain, though the red crater that an 
hour before had held the glimmering lake cast up a lurid, volcanic glow against 
the sky. 

Before me lay a broad, dusky landscape, sloping toward the sea, buried in 
mist and shadow. But through it ran a flicker of light, as the envenomed stream 
sped on its deadly mission toward the deep, breaking at intervals into cascades 
of incandescent brightness, and sending far down its current the ruddy, sparkling 
spume that marked the first decomposition of the waters. Nearer and nearer 
to the sea the fiery line was creeping, stretching itself along like a glowing earth- 
worm. 

And I, too, cried upon God in my extremity, for man was impotent and 
science vain. Science ! Was it not the very life-blood of that red devil yonder, 
crawling on with unquenchable torch to make a molten ruin of the world? And 
I, that believed not in God, also prayed to God, and wept and prayed again. 

In the midst of my crying I felt a touch, and clasped in my arms the limp 
body of my almost dying friend. Dying he surely was ; yet, even then, his iron 
will — hardened by scientific training and ordeals such as ordinary men never 
dream of — so triumphed that, despite the intolerable suffering that dazed and 
blinded him, he had dragged himself down the rough gorge to see the end. 

And the end was near. Already that distant tongue of vibrant flame was 
flickering at the margin of the sea. It was more than human nerves could bear. 
We shrieked out like men in nightmare terror. We shrieked, and shrieked 
again, and could not cease, for the end of the world was NOW. 

The yeasty spume darted out against the surf. Then a long white-crested 
wave rolled in and buried it from view. A tall column of steam shot up, so ruddy 
that at first it seemed a jet of fire ; and a sound began to fill the air, as when white- 
hot steel is quenched in the ice-bath. 

The professor sprang to his feet. He stood lifted upon his toes, every muscle 
tense ; his breath came and went in shrill sighs. Disfigured, naked, in that weird 
light, he was like a devil-hunted soul fleeing from its place of torment ; on his face 
a wild agony of hope, as if one might indeed escape from hell. He strove to 



CHARLES KELSEY GAINES 31 

speak, but the words gurgled like an obstructed brook. Then with supreme en- 
deavor he trumpeted a cry: "The salt!" — if I heard aright, for indeed it was 
hardly articulate, and he fell like a figure of stone. 

Meanwhile, as the wave receded on the beach a change was visible. The red 
had vanished ; a wash of luminous green flowed down the sand ; the surf was shot 
with sparkles and flashes of still more vivid hue. Then the red waters of the 
stream again prevailed, and pressed far out in the brine. Gushes of colored light 
bubbled up from depths, and all over the tossing surface fluttered flames of blue 
and green. It seemed as if the briny waters and the fresh were struggling for 
the mastery. Was it possible that the salt of the sea had power? I dared not 
think it. 

The waters were now boiling with volcanic violence ; the air above was thick 
with rolling clouds of tinted vapor ; the many-hued gleams and flashes playing 
under the waves lit up the bottom of the ocean far and near. So intense was the 
illumination that I could see the scaly glitter of the frightened fishes as they sped 
away on every side, and the black slimy shapes of nameless monsters struggling 
in the scalding liquid. 

I lifted my eyes to the black, unanswering heavens, and cried to the void 
above : 

"O God — if thou art God — oh ! cast me down for my sins, with this raging 
fire, into the abyss of hell ; but save the fair world created by thy hand, its teem- 
ing cities, and the millions that are sleeping, thy children." 

And at that moment I seemed to see all the peoples of the earth buried in 
slumber, the bride in the arms of her loved one, the mother beside her babe. 
And I saw, as in a vision, a conflagration mounting above the clouds, streaming 
far into airless space, sweeping on to the destruction of mankind. 

The channel of the stream was now empty ; the last crimson drops of fer- 
ment were drained into the deep. For an instant the surface darkened, and the 
ebullition almost ceased. Then, with an earthquake shudder, a blinding 
avalanche of liquid incandescence, the waters were lifted in a thousand fountains. 

I lay staring at the sky ; raindrops were falling on my face ; it was very dark. 
Whether I had been stunned by the shock of the explosion, or whether human 
consciousness could no longer endure the strain, I do not know. Evidently some 
time had elapsed. My head was resting upon something cold and dead. I knew 
too well what it was ; but at first I could not rise ; my will was helpless, my body 
corpse-like. I tried to think, but sensation lapsed again. 

At last I roused, and was able to turn a little. Slowly the power of sight 
came back to my glazed eyeballs. All the land was in shadow ; the sea was dark 
and smooth. The virus of fire was quite burned out, the last spark extinguished 
in the quenching brine. The world was saved ! 




JAMES L. FORD 



32 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 33 

THE SOBER, INDUSTRIOUS POET, AND HOW 
HE FARED AT EASTER-TIME 

BY JAMES L FORD 

(Born at St. Louis, Mo., July 25, 1S54) 

LAS, Mary !" exclaimed William Sonnet, as he entered his neat but 
humble tenement apartment a few days before the close of Lent, "I fear 
that our Pfingst holiday this year will be anything but a merry one. 
My employers have notified me that if they receive any more com- 
plaints of the goods from my department they will give me the sack." 
William Sonnet was certainly playing in hard luck, although it 
would be difficult to find in the whole of Jersey City a more industrious, sober 
young poet, or a more devoted husband and father. For nine years he had been 
employed in the Empire Prose and Verse Foundry, the largest literary establish- 
ment on the banks of the Hackensack, where by sheer force of sobriety and indus- 
try he had risen from the humble position of cash-boy at the hexameter counter to 
that of foreman of the dialect floor, where forty-five hands were kept constantly 
employed on prose and verse. During these years his relations with his employ- 
ers, Messrs. Rime & Reeson, had been of the pleasantest nature until about six 
weeks previous to the opening of this story, when they began — unjustly, as it 
seemed to him — to find fault with the goods turned out by his department. There 
were complaints received at the office every day, they said, of both the dialect 
stories and verses that bore the Empire brand. 

The Century Magazine had returned a large invoice of hand-sewed negro 
dialect verses of the "Befoli de Wah" variety, and a syndicate which supplied the 
Western market had canceled all its Spring orders on the ground that the dialect 
goods had for some reason or other fallen far below the standard maintained by 
the other departments of the Empire Foundry. William was utterly unable to 
account for this change in the quality of the manuscript prepared on his floor, and 
as he sat with his bowed head resting on his toil-hardened hand, and the sweat 
and grime of honest labor on his brow, he looked, indeed, the very picture of de- 
jection. 

"William," said his wife, as she placed a caressing hand on his forehead, 
"you have enemies in the Foundry whom you do not suspect. You must know 
that when you wooed and won me a year ago I had been courted by no less than 
four dififerent poets who at that time were employed at the Eagle Verse Works 



34 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

in Newark, but have since found positions with Messrs. Rime & Reeson. I 
will not deny, William, that I toyed with the affections of those poets, but it was 
because I deemed them as frivolous as myself, and when they went from my 
presence with angry threats on their lips I laughed in merry glee. But when I 
saw them standing on street corners, with their heads together in earnest con- 
versation, I grew sick at heart, for I knew it boded us no good. Be warned, 
William, by my words." 

The next day, when the whistle blew at noon, William Sonnet ate his dinner 
from his tin pail as usual ; but then, instead of going out into the street to play 
baseball with the poets from the adjacent factories, as the Empire Foundry em- 
ployees generally did, he took a quiet stroll through the whole establishment, un- 
der the pretense of looking for an envoy that had been knocked off the end of a 
ballade. 

In the packing department was a large consignment of goods from his floor 
ready for shipment, and he stopped to examine the burr of a Scotch magazine 
story to make sure that it had not been rubbed off by carelessness. What was 
his surprise to find that the dialect, which he himself had gone over with a cross- 
cut file that very morning, was now worn completely smooth by contact with an 
emery wheel. He replaced the story carefully in the fine sawdust in which it was 
packed, and then examined the other goods. They had not yet been touched, 
but it was evident to him that the miscreants fully intended to finish the de- 
structive work which they had only had time to begin. Returning to his own 
bench, he passed two or three poets who were talking earnestly together, and by 
straining his ears he heard one of them whisper : 

"We'll finish the job to-night. Meet me at ten." 

That was enough for William Sonnet. He determined, without delay, what 
course to pursue. 

At half-past nine that evening three mysterious figures, draped in black 
cloaks, entered the Empire Prose and Verse Foundry by a side door. William 
Sonnet was one of ihe three, and the others were his employers, Messrs. Rime 
& Reeson. He led them to a place of concealment which commanded a full view 
of the packing-room. Before long stealthy footsteps were heard, and the four 
conspirators entered. 

"Listen," said the eldest of the quartet, as he threw the light from his dark 
lantern on the sullen faces of his companions ; "you all know why we are here. 
This night will complete William Sonnet's ruin, and Easter Monday will find him 
hunting for work in Paterson and Newark, and hunting in vain. Why is he 
foreman of the dialect department, while we toil at the bench for a mere crust? 
Mary Birdseye is now his bride, but when we wooed her we were rejected, like 
our own poems." 



TAMES L. FORD 



35 



"And that, too, although we enclosed no postage," retorted the second poet, 
bitterly. 

"Now to work," continued the first speaker, as he stooped to examine some 
goods on the floor. "What have we here? A serial for the Atlantic Monthly? 
Well we'll soon fix that," and in another moment he had injected a quantity of 
ginger into the story, ruining it completely. Then the work of destruction went 
on, while Messrs. Rime & Reeson watched the vandals with horror depicted on 
tlieir faces. A pan of sweepings from the humorous department, designed for 
Harper's "Editor's Drawer" and the Bazar, was thrown away, and real funny 
jokes substituted for them. 

A page article for the Sunday supplement of a New York daily, . entitled 
"Millionaires Who Have Gold Filling in Their Teeth," embellished with cuts of 
twenty different jaws, was thrown out, and an article on "Jerusalem the Golden," 
ordered by the White Sepulchre, substituted. 

Messrs. Rime & Reeson could control themselves no longer. Stacked 
against the wall like a woodpile were the twelve instalments of a Century serial, 
which had been sawed into the proper lengths that afternoon. Seizing one of 
these apiece, the three men made a sudden onslaught on the miscreants and beat 
them into insensibility. Then they bound them securely and delivered them over 
to the tormentors. 

As for honest William Sonnet, he was made foreman of the whole Foundry ; 
and his wife, who was a fashion writer, and therefore never fit to be seen, received 
a present of two beautiful new tailor-made dresses, which fitted her so well that 
no one recognized her, and she opened a new line of credit at all the stores in the 
neighborhood. 

It was a happy family that sat down to the Easter dinner in William Sonnet's 
modest home ; and to make their joy complete, before the repast was ended an 
envelope arrived from William's grateful employers containing an appointment 
for his bedridden mother-in-law as reader for a large publishing house. 





DONN PIATT 



36 



BEST THIXGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



THE BLOOM WAS ON THE ALDER AND THE 
TASSEL ON THE CORN 

BY DONN PIATT 

(Born at Cincinnati, O., June 29, 1819; died at Cleveland, O., November 12, 1S91) 

I heard the bob-white whistle in the dewy breath of morn ; 
The bloom was on the alder and the tassel on the corn. 
I stood with beating heart beside the babbling Mac-o-chee, 
To see my love come down the glen to keep her tryst with me. 

I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path along, 
And pause to pluck a flower or to hear the thrush's song. 
Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen, 
She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little queen. 

Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden shone, 
For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a youth unknown. 
The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on bended knee 
For love this gracious princess gave, with all her heart, to me. 

So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she stood. 

With all the freshness of a girl in flush of womanhood. 

I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine. 

And stammered, as in awkward speech, I begged her to be mine. 

'Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dimlit dream ; 
'Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the rippling stream ; 
'Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south wind's sigh ; 
More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, low reply. 

The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life 

To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its strife. 

'Tis said that angels watch o'er men, commissioned from above ; 

My angel walked with me on earth, and gave to me her love. 

Ah ! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dim with tears , 
I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone years, 
For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy morn. 
With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the corn. 

By permission of The Robert Clarke Company. 



Z7 




CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER 




iiicsT rmxGs I'Kuai amickicax ijtkkatuke 39 



FATHER DAMON'S TEMPTATION 

lilvIXC. A CIIM'TI-K I'KOM "Till' C.OI.DI^N IIOTSK" 

BY CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER 

(Born at Plainfield, Mass., vSepteinber 12, 1829) 

ITH a supreme effort of his iron will — is the will, after all, stronger than 
love? — Father Damon arose. He stretehed out his hand to say fare- 
well. She also stood, and she felt the hand tremble that held hers. 

"God bless you !" he said. "You are so good." He was going. 
He took her other hand, and was looking down upon her face. She 
looked up, and their eyes met. It was for an instant, a flash, glance 
for glance, as swift as the stab of daggers. 

All the power of heaven and earth could not recall that glance nor undo its 
revelations. The man and woman stood face to face revealed. 

He bent down toward her face. Affrighted by his passion, scarcely able to 
stand in her sudden emotion, she started back. The action, the instant of time, 
recalled him to himself. He dropped her hands, and was gone. And the 
woman, her knees refusing any longer to support her, sank into a chair, help- 
less, and saw him go, and knew in that moment the height of a woman's joy, the 
depth of a woman's despair. 

It had come to her. Steeled by her science, shielded by her philanthropy, 
schooled in indifference to love, it had come to her ! And it was hopeless. 
Hopeless? It was absurd. Her life was determined. In no event could it be 
in harmony with his opinions, with his religion, which was dearer to him than 
life. There was a great gulf between them which she could not pass unless she 
ceased to be herself. And he ? A severe priest ! Vowed and consecrated 
against human passion ! What a government of ihe world — if there w^ere any 
government — that could permit such a thing! It was terrible. 

And yet she was loved ! That sang in her heart with all the pain, with all 
the despair. And with it all was a great pity for him, alone, gone into the wilder- 
ness, as it would seem to him, to struggle with his fierce temptation. 

It had come on darker as she sat there. The lamps were lighted, and she 
was reminded of some visits she must make. She went, mechanically, to her 
room to prepare for going. The old jacket, which she took up, did look rather 
rusty. She went to the press — it was not much of a wardrobe— and put on the 

l-*rom " The (iolden House," copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers. All rights reserved. 



40 BEST TlllXGS FROM AMKRICAX LITKRATLRK 

one that was reserved for holidays. And the hat? Her friend, had often joked 
her about the hat. but now for the first time she seemed to see it as it nnght ap- 
pear to others. As she held it in her hand, and then put it on before the mirror, 
she smiled a little, faintlv. at its appearanee. And then she laid it aside for her 
better hat. She never had been so long- in dressing before. And in the even- 
ing, too. wlien it eould make no diflferenee ! It might, after all. be a little more 
elK^erful for her forlorn patients. Perhaps she was not eonseious that she was 
making selections, that she was paying a little more attention to her todet than 
usual. Perhaps it was only the woman who was eonseious that she was loved. 
It would be difficult to say what emotion was uppermost in the mind of 
Father Damon as he left the house— mortification, conteiupt of himself, or horror. 
But there was a sense of escape, of physical escape, and the imperative need of it. 
that quickened his steps almost to a run. In the increasing dark, at this hour, 
in this quarter of the town, there were comparatively few whose observation of 
him would recall him to himself. He thought only of escape, and of escape from 
that quarter of the citv that was the witness of his labors and his failure, hor 
the moment, to get awav from this was the one necessity ; and without reasoning 
in the matter, onlv feeling, he was hurrying, stumbling in his haste, northward. 
Before he went to the hospital he had been tired, physically weary. He was 
scarcely conscious of it now ; indeed, his body, his hated body, seemed lighter, 
and the dominant spirit now awakened to contempt of it had a certain pleasure 
in testing it. in drawing upon its vitality, to the point of exhaustion if possible. 
It should be seen which was master. 

His rapid pace presently brought him into one of the great avenues leading 
to Harlem. That was the direction he wished to go. That was where he knew, 
without making anv decision, he must go. to the haven of the house of his order, 
on the heights^ bevond Harlem. A train was just clattering along the elevated 
road above him. He could see the faces at the windows, the black masses 
crowding the platforms. It went pounding by as if it were freight from another 
world. He was in haste, but haste to escape from himself. That way. bearing 
him along with other people, and in the moving world, was to bring him in 
touch with humanitv again, and so with what was most hateful in himself. He 
must be alone. But there was a deeper psychological reason than that for walk- 
incv instead of availing himself of the swiftest method of escape. He was not 
fleeing from justice or pursuit. When the mind is in torture and the spirit is 
torn, the instinctive effort is to bodily activity, to force physical exertion, as if 
there must be compensation for the mental strain in the weariness of nature. 
The priest obeyed this instinct, as if it were possible to walk away from himself. 
and went on, at first with almost no sense of weariness. 

And the shame! He could not bear to be observed. It seemed to him that 



ClIARLlvS DUDIJCY WARNER 41 

every one would sec in his face that he was a recreant priest, perjured and for- 
sworn. And so great had been his spiritual pride! So removed he had deemed 
himself from the weakness of humanity ! And he had yielded at the first tempta- 
tion, and the connnonest of all temptations! Thank (lod! he had not quite 
yielded. He had fled. And yet, how would it have been if Ruth Lei<;h had not 
had a moment of reserve, of prudent repulsion ! He p^roancd in an.q;uish. The 
sin was in the intention. It was no merit of his that he had not with a kiss of 
])assion broken his word to his Lord and lost his soul. 

It was remorse that was driving- him alonj;- the avenue; no room for any 
other thought yet, or feeling. Perhaps it is true in these days, that the old- 
fashioned torture known as remorse is rarely experienced except under the name 
of detection. But it was a reality with this highly sensitive nature, with this 
conscience educated to the finest edge of feeling. The world need never know 
his moment's weakness; Ruth Leigh he could trust as he would have trusted 
h.is own sister to guard his honor — that was all over; never, he was sure, would 
sh.e even by a look recall the past ; but he knew how he had fallen, and the awful 
measure of his lapse from loyalty to his Master. And how could he ever again 
stand before erring, sinful men and women and speak about that purity which 
he had violated? Could repentance, confession, penitence wipe away this stain? 

As he went on, his mind in a whirl of humiliation, self-accusation, and con- 
tempt, at length he began to be conscious of physical weariness. Except the 
biscuit and the glass of wine at the hospital, he had taken nothing since his light 
luncheon. When he came to the Harlem l>ridge he was compelled to rest. 
T^eaning against one of the timbers and half seated, with the softened roar of the 
city in his ears, the lights gleaming on the heights, the river flowing dark and 
silent, he began to be conscious of his situation. Yes. he was very tired. It 
seemed difificult to go on without help of some sort. At length he crossed the 
bridge. Lights were gleaming from the saloons along the street. He paused 
in front of one, irresolute. Food he could not taste, but something he must have 
to carry him on. But no, that would not do ; he could not enter in that priest's 
garb. He dragged himself along until he came to a drug-shop, the modern 
sahjon of the respectably virtuous. 'Phat he entered, and sat down on a stool by 
the soda-water counter. The expectant clerk stared at him while waiting the 
order, his hand tentatively seeking one of the faucets of refreshment. 

"I feel a little feverish," said the father. "You may give me five grains of 
(|uinine in whiskey." 

"That'll put you all right." said the boy as he handed him the mixture. 
"It's all the go now." 

It seemed to revive him, and he went out and walked on towards the heights. 
Somehow, seeing this boy, coming back to common life, perhaps the strong and 



42 CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER 

unaccustomed stimulant gave a new shade to his thoughts. He was safe. Pres- 
ently he would be at the Retreat. He would rest, and then gird up his loins and 
face life again. The mood lasted for some time. And when the sense of physical 
weariness came back, that seemed to dull the acuteness of his spiritual torment. 
It was late when he reached the house and rang the night-bell. No one of 
the brothers was up except Father Monies, and it was he who came to the door. 

"You! So late! Is anything the matter?" 

"I needed to come," the father said, simply, and he grasped the door-post, 
steadying himself as he came in. 

"You look like a ghost." 

"Yes. I'm tired. I walked." 

"Walked? From Rivington Street?" 

"Nearly. I felt like it." 

"It's most imprudent. You dined first?" 

"I wasn't hungry." 

"But you must have something at once." And Father Monies hurried away. 
heated some bouillon by a spirit-lamp, and brought it, with bread, and set it 
before his unexpected guest. 

"There, cat that, and get to l)cd as soon as you can. It was great nonsense." 

And Father Damon obeyed. Indeed, he was too exhausted to talk. 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 43 



THE CARPENTER AND HIS SON 

BEING CHAPTER VII. FROM "BEN-HUR" 

BY GENERAL LEW WALLACE 

(Born at Brookville, Ind., April lo, 1827) 

EXT day a detachment of legionaries went to the desolated palace, and, 
closing the gates permanently, plastered the corners with wax, and 
at the sides nailed a notice in Latin: "This is the Property of 
The Emperor." 

In the haughty Roman idea, the sententious announcement was 
thought sufficient for the purpose — and it was. 

The day after that again, about noon, a decurion with his command of ten 
horsemen approached Nazareth from the south — that is, from the direction of 
Jerusalem. The place was then a straggling village, perched on a hill-side, and so 
insignificant that its one street was little more than a path well beaten by the com- 
ing and going of flocks and herds. The great plain of Esdraelon crept close 
to it on the south, and from the height on the west a view could be had 
of the shores of the Mediterranean, the region beyond the Jordan, and Hermon. 
The valley below, and the country on every side, were given to gardens, vine- 
yards, orchards, and pasturage. Groves of palm-trees Orientalized the landscape. 
The houses, in irregular assemblage, were of the humbler class — square, one- 
story, flat-roofed, and covered with bright green vines. The drought that had 
burned the hills of Judea to a crisp, brown and lifeless, stopped at the boundary- 
line of Galilee. 

A trumpet, sounded when the cavalcade drew near the village, had a magical 
effect upon the inhabitants. The gates and front doors cast forth groups eager 
to be the first to catch the meaning of a visitation so unusual. 

Nazareth, it must be remembered, was not only aside from any great high- 
way, but within the sway of Judas of Gamala ; wherefore, it should not be hard 
to imagine the feelings with which the legionaries were received. But when they 
were up and traversing the street, the duty that occupied them became apparent, 
and then fear and hatred were lost in curiosity, under the impulse of which the 
people, knowing there must be a halt at the well in the northeastern part of the 
town, quit their gates and doors, and closed in after the procession. 

A prisoner, whom the horsemen were guarding, was the object of curiosity. 

From "Ben-Hur," copyright, 1880. by Harper & Brothers. All rights reserved. 




GENERAL LEW WALLACE 



44 



GENERAL LEW WALLACE 45 

He was afoot, bareheaded, half naked, his hands bound behind him. A thong 
fixed to his wrists was looped over the neck of a horse. The dust went 
with the party when in movement, wrapping him in yellow fog, sometimes in a 
dense cloud. He drooped forward, footsore and faint. The villagers could see 
he was young. 

At the well the decurion halted, and, with most of the men, dismounted. 
The prisoner sank down in the dust of the road, stupefied, and asking nothing : 
apparently he was in the last stage of exhaustion. Seeing, when they came 
near, that he was but a boy, the villagers would have helped him had they dared. 

In the midst of their perplexity, and while the pitchers were passing among 
the soldiers, a man was descried coming down the road from Sepphoris. At 
sight of him a woman cried out, "Look ! Yonder comes the carpenter. Now 
we will hear something." 

The person spoken of was quite venerable in appearance. Thin white locks 
fell below the edge of his full turban, and a mass of still whiter beard flowed 
down the front of his coarse gray gown. He came slowly, for, in addition to his 
age, he carried some tools — an axe, a saw, and a drawing-knife, all very rude and 
heavy — and had evidently traveled some distance without rest. 

He stopped close by to survey the assemblage. 

"O Rabbi, good Rabbi Joseph!" cried a woman, running to him. "Here is 
a prisoner; come ask the soldiers about him, that we may know who he is, and 
what he has done, and what they are going to do with him." 

The rabbi's face remained stolid ; he glanced at the prisoner, however, and 
presently went to the officer. 

"The peace of the Lord be with you !" he said, with unbending gravity. 

"And that of the gods with you," the decurion replied. 

"Are you from Jerusalem?" 

"Yes." 

"Your prisoner is young." 

"In years, yes." 

"May I ask what he has done?" 

"He is an assassin." 

The people repeated the word in astonishment, but Rabbi Joseph pursued 
his inquest. 

"Is he a son of Israel?" 

"He is a Jew," said the Roman, dryly. 

The wavering pity of the bystanders came back. 

"I know nothing of your tribes, but can speak of his family," the speaker 
continued. "You may have heard of a prince of Jerusalem named Hur — Ben- 
Hur, thev call him. He lived in Herod's day." 



46 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"I have seen him," Joseph said. 

"Well, this is his son." 

Exclamations became general, and the dectirion hastened to stop them. 

"In the streets of Jerusalem, day before yesterday, he nearly killed the noble 
Gratus by flinging a tile upon his head from the roof of a palace — his father's. I 
believe." 

There was a pause in the conversation during which the Nazarenes gazed at 
the young Ben-Hur as at a wild beast. 

"Did he kill him?" asked the rabbi. 

"No." 

"He is under sentence ?" 

"Yes — the galleys for life." 

"The Lord help him !" said Joseph, for once moved out of his stolidity. 

Thereupon a youth who came up with Joseph, but had stood behind him un- 
observed, laid down an axe he had been carrying, and, going to the great stone 
standing by the well, took from it a pitcher of water. The action was so quiet 
that before the guard could interfere, had they been disposed to do so, he was 
stooping over the prisoner, and offering him drink. 

The hand laid kindly upon his shoulder awoke the unfortunate Judah, and. 
looking up, he saw a face he never forgot — the face of a boy about his own age, 
shaded by locks of yellowish bright chestnut hair ; a face lighted by dark-blue 
eyes, at the time so soft, so appealing, so full of love and holy purpose, that they 
had all the power of command and will. The spirit of the Jew, hardened though 
it was by days and nights of suffering, and so imbittered by wrong that its dreanis 
of revenge took in all the world, melted vuider the stranger's look, and became 
as a child's. He put his lips to the pitcher, and drank long and deep. Not a 
word w'as said to him, nor did he say a word. 

When the draught was finished, the hand that had been resting upon the 
sufferer's shoulder was placed upon his head, and stayed there in the dusty locks 
time enough to say a blessing ; the stranger then returned the pitcher to its 
place on the stone, and, taking his axe again, went back to Rabbi Joseph. All 
eyes went with him, the decurion's as well as those of the villagers. 

This was the end of the scene at the well. When the men had drunk, and 
the horses, the march was resumed. But the temper of the decurion was not as 
it had been ; he himself raised the prisoner from the duGt, and helped him on a 
horse behind a soldier. The Nazarenes went to their houses — among them Rabbi 
Joseph and his apprentice. 

And so, for the first time, Judah and the son of Mary met and parted. 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 47 



A SPECIMEN OF GENERAL LEW WALLACE'S MANUSCRIPT 

^Y'-c-^'^^CL^^ vv<,4^/vA^>.^^-«^ ^^^^^Je-7^^-CA) lila-^ " Jvta^- t^x/ K^>w^ 
(t^»-^^-<.£W - J{\-Q^*~^ v^—^*^ w-tvv^ fi_je_cwv j"w_G/ CU-^.-'vu-w «.'-v'v-4 

Ct^Vw^fv_e^ cX; ; h-y..J^ J-^-C^ -^-aJ^ tA-e-Jz-^ H^U2_^ TZ-txyy<^ — 

c;^*-^ <v4 /«_^-rv^ t-^ ^^^i-.WvjL>a^ ^ ^-u-^tr- ^-^-f ^^^ cu^^ - 

A^^^ /^^CS v-r.^<i_ti ^...^^L^ ^YYlr 



oHjU^y^. UO-^^UUUx^^l^JV . 




WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 49 



THE LAPHAMS' DILEMMA 

BEING ONE CHAPTER FROM THE REMARKABI^E NOVEIv ENTITI^ED 
"THE RISE OF SII,AS I^APHAM " 

BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 

(Born at Martinsville, Belmont County, Ohio, March i, 1837) 

RS. LAPHAM went away to put on her bonnet and cloak, and she was 
waiting at the window when her husband drove up. She opened the 
door and ran down the steps. ''Don't get out ; I can help myself 
in," and she clambered to his side, while he kept the fidgeting mare 
still with voice and touch. 

"Where do you want I should go ?" he asked, turning the buggy. 

"Oh, I don't care. Out Brookline way, I guess. I wish you hadn't brought 
this fool of a horse," she gave way petulantly. "I wanted to have a talk." 

"When I can't drive this mare and talk, too, I'll sell out altogether," said 
Lapham. "She'll be quiet enough when she's had her spin." 

"Well," said his wife ; and while they were making their way across 
the city to the milldam she answered certain questions he asked about some point 
in the new house. 

"I should have liked to have you stop there," he began ; but she answered 
so quickly, "Not to-day," that he gave it up and turned his horse's head west- 
ward when they struck Beacon Street. 

He let the mare out, and he did not pull her in till he left the Brighton 
road and struck off under the low boughs that met above one of the quiet streets 
of Brookline, where the stone cottages, with here and there a patch of determined 
ivy on their northern walls, did what they could to look English amid the glare 
of the autumnal foliage. The smooth earthen track under the mare's hoofs 
was scattered with flakes of the red and yellow gold that made the air luminous 
around them, and the perspective was gay with innumerable tints and tones. 

"Pretty sightly," said Lapham, with a long sigh, letting the reins lie loose 
in his vigilant hand, to which he seemed to relegate the whole charge of the 
mare. "I want to talk with you about Rogers, Persis. He's been getting in 
deeper and deeper with me ; and last night he pestered me half to death to go 
in with him in one of his schemes. I ain't going to blame anybody, but I 
hain't got very much confidence in Rogers. And I told him so last night." 

"Oh, don't talk to me about Rogers," his wife broke in. "There's some 

By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston. 



50 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

thing a good deal more important than Rogers in the world, and more important 
than your business. It seems as if you couldn't think of anything else — that 
and the new house. Did you suppose I wanted to ride so as to talk Rogers 
with you?" she demanded, yielding to the necessity a wife feels of making her 
husband pay for her suffering, even if he has not inflicted it. "I declare " 

"Well, hold on, now!" said Lapham. "What do you want to talk about? 
I'm listening." 

His wife began, "Why, it's just this, Silas Lapham !" and then she broke off 
to say, "Well, you may wait, now — starting me wrong when it's hard enough, 
anyway." 

Lapham silently turned his whip over and over in his hand and waited. 

"Did you suppose," she asked at last, "that that young Corey had been 
coming to see Irene?" 

"I don't know what I supposed," replied Lapham, sullenly. "You always 
said so." He looked sharply at her under his lowering brows. 

"Well, he hasn't," said Mrs. Lapham, and she replied to the frown that 
blackened on her husband's face. "And I can tell you what, if you take it in 
that way I shan't speak another word." 

"Who's takin' it what way?" retorted Lapham, savagely. "What are you 
drivin' at?" 

"I want you should promise that you'll hear me out quietly." 

"I'll hear you out if you'll give me a chance. I haven't said a word yet." 

"Well, I'm not going to have you flying into forty furies, and looking like 
a perfect thundercloud at the very start. I've had to bear it, and you've got to 
bear it, too." 

"Well, let me have a chance at it, then." 

"It's nothing to blame anybody about, as I can see, and the only question 
is, what's the best thing to do about it. There's only one thing we can do ; for 
if he don't care for the child, nobody wants to make him. If he hasn't been 
coming to see her, he hasn't, and that's all there is to it." 

"No, it ain't !" exclaimed Lapham. 

"There !" protested his wife. 

"If he hasn't been coming to see her, what has he been coming for?" 

"He's been coming to see Pen!" cried the wife. "Now are you satisfied?" 
Her tone implied that he had brought it all upon them ; but at the sight of the 
swift passions working in his face to a perfect comprehension of the whole trouble, 
she fell to trembling, and her broken voice lost all the spurious indignation she 
had put into it. "Oh, Silas I what are we going to do about it? I'm afraid it'll 
kill Irene." 

Lapham pulled off the loose driving-glove from his right hand with the 



WILLIAM DEAN HOVVELLS 51 

fingers of his left, in which the reins lay. He passed it over his forehead, and 
then flicked from it the moisture it had gathered there. He caught his breath 
once or twice, like a man who meditates a struggle with superior force and then 
remains passive in its grasp. 

His wife felt the need of comforting him, as she had felt the need of afflict- 
ing him. "I don't say but what it can be made to come out all right in the end. 
All I say is, I don't see my way clear yet." 

"What makes you think he likes Pen?" he asked, quietly. 

"He told her so last night, and she told me this morning. Was he at the 
office to-day?" 

"Yes, he was there. I haven't been there much myself. He didn't say any- 
thing to me. Does Irene know?" 

"No ; I left her getting ready to go out shopping. She wants to get a pin 
like the one Nanny Corey had on." 

"O my Lord !" groaned Lapham. 

"It's been Pen from the start, I guess, or almost from the start. I don't 
say but what he was attracted some by Irene at the very first ; but I guess it's 
been Pen ever since he saw her ; and we've taken up with a notion and blinded 
ourselves with it. Time and again I've had my doubts whether he cared for 
Irene any ; but I declare to goodness, when he kept coming I never hardly 
thought of Pen, and I couldn't help believing at last he did care for Irene. Did 
it ever strike you he might be after Pen?" 

"No. I took what you said. I supposed you knew." 

"Do you blame me, Silas?" she asked, timidly. 

"No. What's the use of blaming? We don't either of us want anything 
but the children's good. What's it all of it for, if it ain't for that ? That's what 
we've both slaved for all our lives." 

"Yes, I know. Plenty of people lose their children," she suggested. 

"Yes, but that don't comfort me any. I never was one to feel good because 
another man felt bad. How would you have liked it if some one had taken com- 
fort because his boy lived when ours died ? No, I can't do it. And this is worse 
than death, some ways. That comes and it goes ; but this looks as if it was one 
of those things that had come to stay. The way I look at it, there ain't any hope 
for anybody. Suppose we don't want Pen to have him ; will that help Irene any, 
if he don't want her? Suppose we don't want to let him have either, does that 
help either?" 

"You talk," exclaimed Mrs. Lapham, "as if our say was going to settle it. 
Do you suppose that Penelope Lapham is a girl to take up with a fellow that 
her sister is in love with, and that she always thought was in love with her sister, 
and go ofT and be happy with him ? Don't you believe but what it would come 



52 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

back to her, as long as she breathed the breath of hfe, how she'd teased her about 
him, as I've heard Pen tease Irene, and helped to make her think he was in love 
with her. by showing that she thought so herself? It's ridiculous!" 

Lapham seemed quite beaten down by this argument. His huge head hung 
forward over his breast ; the reins lay loose in his moveless hand ; the mare took 
her own way. At last he lifted his face and shut his heavy jaws. 

"Well?" quavered his wife. 

"Well," he answered, "if he wants her and she wants him, I don't see what 
that's got to do with it." He looked straight forward and not at his wife. 

She laid her hands on the reins. "Now, you stop right here, Silas Lapham! 
If I thought that — if I really believed you could be willing to break that poor 
child's heart, and let Pen disgrace herself by marrying a man that had as good 
as killed her sister, just because you wanted Bromfield Corey's son for a son-in- 
law " 

Lapham turned his face now, and gave her a look. "You had better not 
believe that, Persis"! Get up!" he called to the mare, without glancing at her, 
and she sprang forward. "I see you've got past being any use to yourself on 
this subject." 

"Hello !" shouted a voice in front of him. "Where the devil you goin' to?" 

"Do you want to kill somebody?" shrieked his wife. 

There was a light crash, and the mare recoiled her length, and separated 
their wheels from those of the open buggy in front, which Lapham had driven 
into. He made his excuses to the occupant, and the accident relieved the ten- 
sion of their feelings, and left them far from the point of mutual injury which 
they had reached in their conmion trouble, and their unselfish will for their 
children's good. 

It was Lapham who resumed the talk. "I'm afraid we can't either of us see 
this thing in the right light. We're too near to it. I wish to the Lord there was 
somebody to talk to about it." 

"Yes," said his wife, "but there ain't anybody." 

"Well, I dunno," suggested Lapham, after a moment ; "why not talk to the 
minister of your church? Maybe he could see some way out of it." 

Mrs. Lapham shook her head hopelessly. "It wouldn't do. I've never 
taken up my connection with the church, and I don't feel as if I'd got any claim 
on him." 

"If he's anything of a man, or anything of a preacher, you Juwc got a claim 
on him," urged Lapham; and he spoiled his argument by adding, "I've con- 
tributed enough money to his church." 

"Oh, that's nothing," said Mrs. Lapham. "I ain't well enough acquainted 
with Dr. Langworthy, or else I'm too well. No ; if I was to ask any one, I 



WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 53 

should want to ask a total stranger. But what's the use, Si? Nobody could 
make us see it any different from what it is, and I don't know as I should want 
they should." 

It blotted out the tender beauty of the day, and weighed down their hearts 
even more heavily within them. They ceased to talk of it a hundred times, and 
still came back to it. They drove on and on. It began to be late. 'T guess 
we better go back. Si ?" said his wife ; and as he turned without speaking, she 
pulled her veil down and began to cry softly behind it, with low little broken 
sobs. 

Lapham started the mare up and drove swiftly homeward. At last his wife 
stopped crying and began trying to find her pocket. "Here, take mine, Persis," 
he said, kindly, offering her his handkerchief, and she took it and dried her eyes 
with it. "There was one of those fellows there the other night," he spoke again, 
when his wife leaned back against the cushions in peaceful despair, "that I liked 
the looks of as well as any man I ever saw. I guess he was a pretty good man. 
It was that Mr. Sewall." He looked at his wife, but she did not say anything. 
"Persis," he resumed, "I can't bear to go back with nothing settled in our minds. 
I can't bear to let you." 

"We must. Si," returned his wife, with gentle gratitude. Lapham groaned. 
"Where does he live?" she asked. 

"On Bolingbroke Street. He gave me his number." 

"Well, it wouldn't do any good. What could he say to us?" 

"Oh, I don't know as he could say anything," said Lapham, hopelessly ; 
and neither of them said anything more till they crossed the milldam and found 
themselves between the rows of city houses. 

"Don't drive past the new house. Si," pleaded his wife. "I couldn't bear to 
see it. Drive — drive up Bolingbroke Street. We might as well see where he 
docs live." 

"Well," said Lapham. He drove along slowly. "That's the place," he said 
finally, stopping the mare and pointing with his whip. 

"It wouldn't do any good," said his wife, in a tone which he understood as 
well as he understood her words. He turned the mare up to the curbstone. 

"You take the reins a minute," he said, handing them to his wife. 

He got down and rang the bell, and waited till the door opened ; then he 
came back and lifted his wife out. "He's in." he said. 

He got the hitching-weight from under the buggy seat and made it fast to 
the mare's bit. 

"Do you think she'll stand with that?" asked Mrs. Lapham. 

"I guess so. If she don't, no matter." 

"Ain't you afraid she'll take cold ?" she persisted, trying to make delay. 



54 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Let her !" said Lapham. He took his wife's trembling hand under his arm 
and drew her to the door. 

"He'll think we're crazy," she murmured, in her broken pride. 

"Well, we are," said Lapham. "Tell him we'd like to see him alone a while," 
he said to the girl who was holding the door ajar for him, and she showed him 
into the reception-room, which had been the Protestant confessional for many 
burdened souls before their time, coming, as they did, with the belief that they 
were bowed down with the only misery like theirs in the universe ; for each one 
of us must suffer long to himself before he can learn that he is but one in a great 
community of wretchedness, which has been pitilessly repeating itself from the 
foundation of the world. 

They were as loath to touch their trouble when the minister came in as if it 
were their disgrace ; but Lapham did so at last, and, with a simple dignity which 
he had wanted in his bungling and apologetic approaches, he laid the affair clearly 
before the minister's compassionate and reverent eye. He spared Corey's name, 
but he did not pretend that it was not himself and his wife and their daughters 
who were concerned. 

"I don't know as I've got any right to trouble you with this thing," he 
said, in the moment while Sewall sat pondering the case, "and I don't know 
as I've got any warrant for doing it. But, as I told my wife, here, there was 
something about you — I don't know whether it was anything you said exactly — 
that made me feel as if you could help us. I guess I didn't say so much as that 
to her ; but that's the way I felt. And here we are. And if it ain't all right-^ " 

"Surely," said Sewall, "it's all right. I thank you for coming — for trusting 
your trouble to me. A time comes to every one of us when we can't help our- 
selves, and then we must get others to help us. If people turn to me at such a 
time, I feel sure that I was put into the world for something — if nothing more 
than to give my pity, my sympathy." 

The brotherly words, so plain, so sincere, had a welcome in them that these 
poor outcasts of sorrow could not doubt. 

"Yes," said Lapham, huskily, and his wife began to wipe the tears again 
under her veil. 

Sewall remained silent, and they waited till he should speak. "We can be 
of use to one another here, because we can always be wiser for some one else 
than we can for ourselves. We can see another's sins and errors in a more merci- 
ful light — and that is always a fairer light — than we can our own ; and we can 
look more sanely at other's afflictions." He had addressed these words to Lap- 
ham ; now he turned to his wife. "If some one had come to you, Mrs. Lapham, 
in just this perplexity, what would you have thought ?" 

"I don't know as I understand you," faltered Mrs. Lapham. 



WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 55 

Sewall repeated his words, and added, "I mean, what do you think some 
one else ought to do in your place?" 

"Was there ever any poor creatures in such a strait before?" she asked, 
with pathetic incredulity. 

"There's no new trouble under the sun," said the minister. 

"Oh, if it was any one else, I should say — I should say — why, of course ! I 
should say that their duty was to let " She paused. 

"One suffer instead of three, if none is to blame?" suggested Sewall. "That's 
sense, and that's justice. It's the economy of pain which naturally suggests itself, 
and which would insist upon itself, if we were not all perverted by traditions 
which are the figment of the shallowest sentimentality. Tell me, Mrs. Lapham, 
didn't this come into your mind when you first learned how matters stood?" 

"Why, yes, it flashed across me. But I didn't think it would be right." 

"And how was it with you, Mr. Lapham ?" 

"Why, that's what I thought, o course. But I didn't see my way " 

"No," cried the minister, "we are all blinded, we are all weakened by a 
false ideal of self-sacrifice. It wraps us round with its meshes, and we can't 
fight our way out of it. Mrs. Lapham, what made you feel that it might be 
better for three to suffer than one?" 

"Why, she did herself. I know she would die soo.ier than take him away 
from her." 

"I supposed so!" cried the minister, bitterly. "And yet she is a sensible 
girl, your daughter?" 

"She has more common-sense " 

"Of course! But in such a case we somehow think it must be wrong to use 
our common-sense. I don't know where this false ideal comes from, unless it 
comes from the novels that befool and debauch almost every intelligence in 
some degree. It certainly doesn't come from Christianity, which instantly re- 
pudiates it when confronted with it. * * * " 

The minister had grown quite heated and red in the face. 

"I lose all patience !" he went on, vehemently. "This poor child of yours 
has somehow been brought to believe that it will kill her sister if her sister does 
not have what does not belong to her, and what it is not in the power of all the 
world, or any soul in the world, to give her. Her sister will suffer — yes, keenly ! 
— in heart and in pride ; but she will not die. You will suffer, too, in your tender- 
ness for her ; but you must do your duty. You must help her to give up. You 
would be guilty if you did less. Keep clearly in mind that you are doing right, 
and the only possible good. And God be with you!" 




MARK TWAIN 



56 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 57 



THE INVALID'S STORY 

BEING PART OK THE REMARKABLE TALE OK THAT TITLE. 

BY MARK TWAIN 

(Born at Florida, Mo., November 30, 1835) 

BELONG in Cleveland, Ohio. One Winter's night, two years ago, I 
reached home just after dark, in a driving snow-storm, and the tirst 
thing I heard when I entered the house was that my dearest boyhood 
friend and schoolmate, John B. Hackett, had died the day before, and 
that his last utterance had been a desire that I would take his remains 
home to his poor old father and mother in Wisconsin. I was greatly 
shocked and grieved, but there was no time to waste in emotions ; I must start 
at once. I took the card, marked "Deacon Levi Hackett, Bethlehem, Wis- 
consin," and hurried off through the whistling storm to the railway station. 
Arrived there, I found the long, white pine box which had been described to 
me ; I fastened the card to it with some tacks, saw it put safely aboard the express 
car, and then ran into the eating-room to provide myself with a sandwich and 
some cigars. When I returned, presently, there was my colfin-box back again, 
apparently, and a young fellow examining around it, with a card in his hand and 
some tacks and a hammer ! I was astonished and puzzled. He began to nail on 
his card, and I rushed out to the express car. in a good deal of a state of mind, 
to ask for an explanation. But no — there was my box all right, in the express 
car; it hadn't been disturbed. 

The fact is, that without my suspecting it a prodigious mistake had been 
made. I was carrying off a box of guns v/hich that young fellow had come to 
the station to ship to a rifle company in Peoria, Illinois, and he had got my 
corpse ! 

Just then the conductor sang out, "All aboard." and I jumped into the ex- 
press car and got a comfortable seat on a bale of buckets. The expressman was 
there, hard at work — a plain man of fifty, with a simple, honest, good-natured 
face, and a breezy, practical heartiness in his general style. As the train moved 
off a stranger skipped into the car and set a package of peculiarly mature and 
capable Limburger cheese on one end of my cofifin-box — I mean my box of guns. 
That is to say, I know now that it was Limburger cheese, but at that time I 
never had heard of the article in my life, and of course was wholly ignorant of 

Copyright, 1898, by the Author. 



58 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

its character. \\'ell, we sped through the wild night, the bitter storm raged on, 
a cheerless misery stole over me, my heart went down, down, down ! 

Presently, having got things arranged to his satisfaction, the expressman 
got some wood and made up a tremendous fire in his stove. This distressed me 
more than I can tell, for I could not but feel that it was a mistake. I was sure 
that the effect would be deleterious upon my poor departed friend. Thompson — 
the expressman's name was Thompson, as I found out in the course of the night — 
now went poking around his car, stopping up whatever stray cracks he could 
find, remarking that it didn't make any difference what kind of a night it was 
outside, he calculated to make us comfortable, anyway. I said nothing, but I 
believed he was not choosing the right way. Meantime he was humming to 
himself just as before ; and meantime, too, the stove was getting hotter and hotter, 
and the place closer and closer. I felt myself growing pale and qualmish, but 
grieved in silence and said nothing. Soon I noticed that the "Sweet By and' By" 
was gradually fading out ; next it ceased altogether, and there was an ominous 
stillness. After a few moments Thompson said, — 

"Pfew! I reckon it ain't no cinnamon 't I've loaded up thish-yer stove 
with !" 

He gasped once or twice, then moved toward the cof — gun-box, stood over 
that Limburger cheese part of a moment, then came back and sat down near me, 
looking a good deal impressed. After a contemplative pause, he said, indicating 
the box with a gesture, — 

"Friend of yourn?" 

"Yes," I said, with a sigh. 

"He's pretty ripe, ain't he?" 

Nothing further was said for perhaps a couple of minutes, each being busy 
with his own thoughts ; then Thompson said, in a low, awed voice, — 

"Sometimes it's uncertain whether they're really gone or not — seem gone, 
you know ; body warm, joints limber — and so, although you think they're gone, 
you don't really know. I've had cases in my car. It's perfectly awful, becuz 
you don't know what minute they'll rise up and look at you!" Then, after a 
pause, and slightly lifting his elbow toward the box — "But he ain't in no trance ! 
No, sir; I go bail for himf 

We sat some time in meditative silence, listening to the wind and the roar 
of the train ; then Thompson said, wdth a good deal of feeling, — 

"Well-a-well, we've all got to go ; they ain't no getting around it. Man that 
is born of woman is a few days and far between, as Scriptur' says. Yes, you 
look at it any way you want to, it's awful solemn and cur'us ; they ain't nobody 
can git around it; aWs got to go — just everybody, as you may say. One day 



MARK TWAIN 59 

you're hearty and strong" — here he scrambled to his feet and broke a pane 
and stretched his nose out at it a minute or two, then sat down again while I 
struggled up and thrust my nose out at the same place, and this we kept on 
doing every now and then — "and next day he's cut down like the grass, and the 
place which knowed him then knows him no more forever, as Scriptur' says. 
Yes, indeedy, it's awful solemn and cur'us ; but we've all got to go, one time or 
another ; they ain't no getting around it." 

There was another long pause ; then, — 

"What did he die of?" 

I said I didn't know. 
** * * * * * * 

Thompson sat down and buried his face in his red silk handkerchief, and 
began to slowly sway and rock his body like one who is doing his best to endure 
the almost unendurable. By this time the fragrance — if you may call it fragrance 
— was just about suffocating, as near as you can come at it. Thompson's face 
was turning gray ; I knew mine hadn't any color left in it. By and by Thompson 
rested his forehead in his left hand, with his elbow on his knee, and sort of waved 
his red handkerchief towards the box with his other hand, and said, — 

"I've carried a many a one of 'em — some of 'em considerable overdue, too — 
but, lordy, he just lays over 'em all ! — and does it easy. Cap., they was helio- 
trope to him !" 

This recognition of my poor friend gratified me, in spite of the sad circum- 
stances, because it had so much the sound of a compliment. 

Pretty soon it was plain that something had to be done. I suggested cigars. 
Thompson thought it was a good idea. He said, — 

"Likely it'll modify him some." We pufifed gingerly along for a while, and 
tried hard to imagine that things were improved. But it wasn't any use. Be- 
fore very long, and without any consultation, both cigars were quietly dropped 
from our nerveless fingers at the same moment. Thompson said, with a sigh, — 

"No, Cap., it don't modify him worth a cent. Fact is, it makes him worse, 
becuz it appears to stir up his ambition. What do you reckon we better do 
now ?" 

I was not able to suggest anything ; indeed, I had to be swallowing and 
swallowing all the time, and did not like to trust myself to speak. 

******* a;% 

Finally he said, — 

"I've got an idea. Suppos'n we buckle down to it and give the Colonel a 
bit of a shove towards t'other end of the car — about ten foot, say? He wouldn't 
have so much influence then, don't you reckon?" 

I said it was a good scheme. So we took in a good fresh breath at the 



6o BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

broken pane, calculating to hold it till we got through ; then we went there and 
bent over that deadly cheese and took a grip on the box. Thompson nodded 
"All ready," and then we threw ourselves forward with all our might ; but 
Thompson slipped and slumped down with his nose on the cheese, and his 
breath got loose. He gagged and gasped, and floundered up and made a break 
for the door, pawing the air and saying, hoarsely, "Don't hender me ! Gimme the 
road! I'm a-dying! Gimme the road!" Out on the cold platform I sat down 
and held his head a while, and he revived. Presently he said, — 

"Do you reckon we started the Gen'rul any?" 

I said no — we hadn't budged him. 

"Well, then, that idea's up the flume. We got to think up something else. 
He's suited wher' he is, I reckon ; and if that's the way he feels about it, and has 
made up his mind that he don't wish to be disturbed, you bet he's a-going to 
have his own way in the business." 

By and by, as we were starting away from a station where we had stopped 
a moment, Thompson pranced in cheerily, and exclaimed, — 

"We're all right now ! I reckon we've got the Commodore this time. I 
judge I've got the stufif here that'll take the tuck out of him." 

It was carbolic acid. He had a carboy of it. He sprinkled it all around 
everywhere ; in fact, he drenched everything with it — rifle-box, cheese and all. 
Then we sat down, feeling pretty hopeful. But it wasn't for long. You see, 
the two perfumes began to mix, and then — well, pretty soon we made a break 
for the door. 

We went in again, after we were frozen pretty stiff ; but, my ! we couldn't 
stay in now. So we just waltzed back and forth, freezing and thawing and 
stifling by turns. In about an hour we stopped at another station, and as we left 
it Thompson came in with a bag and said, — 

"Cap, I'm a-going to chance him once more — just this once ; and if we don't 
fetch him this time, the thing for us to do is to just throw up the sponge and 
withdraw from the canvass. That's the way I put it up." 

He had brought a lot of chicken feathers, and dried apples, and leaf to- 
bacco, and rags, and old shoes, and sulphur, and assafoetida, and one thing or 
another ; and he piled them on a breadth of sheet-iron in the middle of the floor, 
and set fire to them. When they got well started, I couldn't see, myself, how 
even the corpse could stand it. All that went before was just simply poetry to 
that smell ; but, mind you, the original smell stood up out of it just as sublime 
as ever — fact is, these other smells just seemed to give it a better hold ; and my I 
how rich it was ! I didn't make these reflections there — there wasn't time — 



MARK TWAIN 



6i 



made them on the platform. And, breaking for the platform, Thompson got 
suffocated and fell, and before I got him dragged out, which I did by the collar, 
I was mighty near gone myself. When we revived, Thompson said, dejectedly, — 

"We got to stay out here. Cap. We got to do it. They ain't no other 
way. The Governor wants to travel alone, and he's fixed so he can outvote us." 

And presently he added, "This is my last trip ; I am on my way home to die. 
And don't you know, we're p'isoticd. It's our last trip, you can make up your 
mind to it. Typhoid fever is what's going to come of this. I feel it a-coming 
right now. Yes, sir, we're elected, just as sure as you're born." 

We were taken from the pla'tform an hour later, frozen and insensible, at the 
next station, and I went straight off into a virulent fever, and never knew any- 
thing again for three weeks. I found out, then, that I had spent that awful night 
with a harmless box of rifles and a lot of innocent cheese ; but the news was too 
late to save inc ; imagination had done its work, and my health was permanently 
shattered. Neither Bermuda nor any other land can ever bring it back to me. 





EUGENH FIELD 



62 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 63 



THE 'JININ' FARMS 

BY EUGENE FIELD 

(Born at St. Louis, Mo., 1S50 ; died at Chicago, 111., November 4, 1894) 

^OU sec, Bill an' I wuz jest like brothers; wuz raised on 'jinin' farms; 
he wuz his folks' only child, an' I wuz my folks' only one. So 
nat'ril like, we growed up together, lovin' an' sympathizin' with each 
other. What I knowed I told Bill, an' what Bill knowed he told 
me, an' what neither on us knowed — why, that warn't wuth knowin' ! 
Jf I hadn't got over my braggin' days, I'd allow that, in our time, 
Bill an' I wuz jest about the sparkinest beaus in the township, leastwise that's what 
the girls thought ; but, to be honest about it, there wuz only two uv them girls we 
courted, Bill an' I, he courtin' one an' I t'other. You sec, we sung in the choir, 
an' jest as our good luck would have it, we got sot on the sopranner an' the 
alto, an' bimeby — oh, well, after beauin' 'em 'round a spell — a year or so, for 
that matter — we up an' married 'em, an' the old folk gin us the farms, 'jinin' 
farms, where we boys had lived all our lives. Lizzie, my wife, had always been 
powerful friendly with Marthy, Bill's wife ; them two girls never met but what 
they wuz huggin', an' kissin', an' carr'in' on, like girls does ; for women ain't 
like men — they can't control theirselves an' their feelin's like the stronger sex 
does. 

I tell you, it wuz happy times fur Lizzie an' me, an' Marthy an' Bill — happy 
times on the 'jinin' farms, with the pastures full uv fat cattle, an' the barns full 
uv grain an' hay, an' the twin cottages full uv love an' contentment! Then, 
when Cyrus come — our leetle boy, our first an' only one ! Why, when he come, 
I wuz jest so happy an' so grateful that, if I hadn't been a man, I guess I'd have 
jest hollered — maybe cried — with joy. Wanted to call the leetle tyke Bill, but 
Bill wouldn't hear to nothin' but Cyrus. You see, he'd bought a cyclopeedy the 
Winter we wuz maar'ed, an' had been readin' in it uv a great foreign warrior 
named Cyrus that lived a long spell ago. 

"Land uv Goshen, Bill !" sez I, "you don't reckon the baby '11 ever get to be a 
warrior ?" 

"Well, I don't know about that," sez Bill. "There's no tellin' ; at anv rate, 
Cyrus Ketcham has an uncommon sound for a name ; so Cyrus it must be ; an' 
wen he's seven years old I'll gin him the finest Morgan colt in the deestrick." 
So we called him Cyrus, an' he grew up lovin' an' bein' loved by everybody. 

Copyright, 1892, by Bacheller, Johnson & Bacheller. 



64 BEST THIXGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Well, along about two years, or, say, eighteen months or so, after Cyrus 
come to us, a leetle baby girl come to Bill an" Marthy, and uv all the cunnin', 
sweet, leetle things you ever seen, that leetle girl baby wuz the cunnin'est an' 
sweetest ! Looked jest like one uv them foreign crockery figgers you buy in city 
stores, all pink an' white, with big brown eyes here, an' a tieny, weeny mouth 
here, an' a nose an' ears you'd have bet they wuz wax, they wuz so small an" 
fragile. Never darst hold her for fear I'd break her; an' it like to skeered me to 
death to see the way Marthy an' Lizzie would kind uv toss her round an' trot 
her — so — on their knees, or pat her — so — on the back when she wuz colicky, like 
the wimmin folks sez all healthy babies is afore they're three months old. 

"You're going to have the namin' uv her," sez Bill to me. 

"Yes," sez Marthy, "we made it up atween us long ago that you should have 
the namin' uv our baby like we had the namin' uv yourn." 

Then, kind uv hectorin' like — for I wuz always a powerful tease — I sez: 

"How would Cleopatry do for a name, or V^nis? I have been readin' the 
cyclopeedy, myself, I'd have you know." 

An' then I laffed one on them provokin' lafifs uv mine. Oh, I tell you, I 
wuz the worst fellar for hectorin' folks you ever seen ! But I meant it all in fun, 
for when I suspicioned they hadn't liked my funnin', I sez : "Bill," I sez, "an' 
Marthy, there's only one name I'd love above all the rest to call your leetle lamb- 
kin', an' that's the dearest name on earth to me, the name uv Lizzie, my wife !" 

That jest suited them to a T, an' always after that she wuz called leetle Liz- 
zie, an' it sot on her, that name did, like it wuz made for her, an' she for it. We 
made it up then — perhaps more in fun than anything else — that when the chil- 
dren growed up, Cyrus an' leetle Lizzie, they should get maar'ed together, an' 
have both the farms, an' be happy an' a blessin' to us in our old age. We made it 
up in fun, perhaps, but down in our hearts it was our prayer, jest the same, an' 
God heard the prayer an' granted it to be so. 

They played together ; they lived together ; they 'tended the deestrick school 
an' went huckleberrin' ; there wuz huskin's, an' spellin' bees, an' choir meetin's, 
an' skatin', and slidin' down hills. Oh, the happy times uv youth ! An' all those 
happy times our boy Cyrus an' leetle Lizzie went lovin'ly together! 

What made me start so — what made me ask uv Bill one time : "Are we a- 
gettin' old, Bill ?" That wuz the Thanksgivin' night when, as we set round the 
fire in Bill's front room, Cyrus came to us, holdin' leetle Lizzie by the hand, an' 
they asked us could they get maar'ed come next Thanksgivin' time? Why, it 
seemed only yesterday that they wuz chicks together ! God ! how swift the years 
go by when they are happy years ! 

"Reuben," sez Bill to me, "let's go down cellar an' draw a pitcher uv cider." 

You see that, bein' men, it wusn't for us to make a show uv ourselves. 



EUGENE FIELD 65 

Marthy an' LiTzie jest hugged each other, an' laffed an' cried — they wuz so 
glad. Then they hugged Cyrus an' leetle Lizzie, an' talked an' laffed. Well, it 
did beat all how them wimmin folks did talk an' laff all at one time ! Cyrus 
laffed, too, an' then he said he'd go out an' throw some fodder in to the steers, 
an' Bill an' I — well, we went down cellar to draw that pitcher uv cider. 

It ain't for me to tell uv the meller sweetness uv their courtin' time ; I 
couldn't do it if I'd try. Oh, how we loved them both ! Yet oncet in the early 
summer-time, our boy Cyrus, he come to me an' said: ''Father, I want you to 
let me go away for a spell." 

"Cyrus, my boy, go away?" 

"Yes, father ; President Linkern has called for soldiers. Father, you have 
always taught me to obey the voice uv duty. That voice summons me now." 

"God in heaven," I thought, "you have given us this child only to take him 
from us !" 

But then came the second thought : "Steady, Reuben ; you are a man ; be a 
man ! Steady, Reuben ; be a man !" 

"Yer mother," sez I — "yer mother — it will break her heart!" 

"She leaves it all to you, father." 

"But — the other — the other, Cyrus — leetle Lizzie, ye know !" 

"She is content," sez he. 

A storm swep' through me like a cyclone. It wuz all Bill's fault ; that war- 
rior name had done it all — the cyclopeedy with its lies pizened Bill's mind to put 
this trouble on me an' mine. 

No, no ! a thousand times no ! These were coward feelin's an' they misbe- 
come me ; the ache here in the heart uv mine had no business there. The better 
part uv me called to me an' said : "Pull yourself together, Reuben Ketcham, an' 
be a man !" 

Well, after he went away, leetle Lizzie wuz more to us 'n ever before ; wuz at 
our house all the time ; called Lizzie "mother ;" wuz contented in her woman's 
way, willin' to do her part, waitin' an' watchin', an' prayin' for him to come back. 
They sent him boxes uv good things every fortnight, mother an' leetle Lizzie did ; 
there wuzn't a minute uv the day they wuzn't talkin' or thinkin' uv him. 

Well, ye see, I must tell it my own way ; he got killed. In the very first bat- 
tle Cyrus got killed. The rest uv the soldiers turnt to retreat, because there wuz 
too many for 'em on the other side. But Cyrus stood right up ; he wuz the war- 
rior Bill allowed he wuz going to be ; our boy wuzn't the kind to run. They tell 
me there wuz bullet holes here, an' here' an' here — all over his breast. We al- 
ways knew our boy wuz a hero. 

Ye can thank God ye wusn't at the 'jinin' farms when the news come that he 
got killed. The neighbors, they wuz there, of course, to kind uv hold us up an' 



66 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

comfort us. Bill an' I sot all day in the woodshed, holdin' hands an' lookin' 
away from each other — so; never said a word, jest sot there, sympathizin' an' 
holdin' hands. If we'd been winmiin, Bill an I would have cried an' beat our 
forrids an' hung round each other's neck like the winimen folks done. Bein' as 
we wuz men, we jest sot there in the woodshed, away from all the rest, holdin' 
hands an' sympathizin'. 

From that time on leetle Lizzie wuz our daughter — our very daughter — all 
that wuz left to us uv our boy. She never shed a tear ; crep' like a shadow round 
the house an' up the front walk an' through the garden. Her heart wuz broke. 
You could see it in the leetle lambkin's eyes an' hear it in her voice. Wanted to 
tell her sometimes, when she kissed me an' called me "father" — wanted to tell 
her, "Leetle Lizzie, let me help ye bear yer load. Speak out the sorrer that's in 
yer broken heart ; speak it out, leetle one, an' let me help ye bear yer load." 

But it isn't for man to have them feelin's ; leastwise, it isn't for him to tell uv 
them ; so I held my peace an' made no sign. 

She jest drooped, an' pined, an' died. One mornin' in the Spring she wuz 
standin' in the garden, an' all at oncet she threw her arms up — so — an' fell upon 
her face, an' when they got to her all that wuz left to us uv leetle Lizzie wuz her 
lifeless body. I can't tell you what happened next — uv the funeral an' all that. 
I said this wuz in the Spring, an' so it wuz all round us, but it wuz cold and 
Winter here. 

One day mother sez to me: "Reuben," sez she, soft like, "Marthy an' I is 
goin' to the buryin' ground for a spell. Don't you reckon it would be a good 
time for you to step over an' see Bill while we're gone ?" 

"Maybe so, mother," sez I. 

It wuz a pretty day. Cuttin' across lots, I thought to myself what I'd say 
to Bill to kind uv comfort him. I made it up that I'd speak about the time when 
we wuz boys together ; uv how we used to slide down the meetin'-house hill, an' 
go huckelberrin' ; uv how I jumped into the pond one day an' saved him from 
bein' drowned; * * * * a^i' then — 

No, no ; I couldn't go on like that ; I'd break down. A man can't be a man 
more 'n jest so far. 

Why did mother send me over to see Bill? I'd better stay to home. I felt 
myself chokin' up; if I hadn't took a chew uv terbacker, I'd 'ave been cryin' . 

The nearer I got to Bill's the worse I hated to go in. Standin' on the stoop, 
1 could hear the tall clock tickin' solemnly inside — "tick-tock, tick-tock," jest as 
plain as if I wuz sittin' inside uv it. The door wuz shut, yet I knew jest what Bill 
wuz doin' ; he wuz settin' in the old red easy-chair, lookin' down at the floor — like 
this. Strange, ain't it, how sometimes, when you love folks, you know jest what 
they're doin' without knowin' anything about it ? 



EUGENE FIELD 67 

There wuzn't no use knockin', but I knocked three times — so. Didn't say a 
word ; only jest knocked three times — that a-way. Didn't hear no answer — 
nothin' but the tick uv the tall clock, an' yet I knew that Bill heard me an' that 
down in his heart he wuz sayin' to me to come in. He never said a word, yet I 
knowed all the time that Bill wuz sayin' for me to come in. 

I opened the door, keerful like, an' slipped in. There sot Bill, jest as I 
knowed he wuz sittin' ; lonesome like, sad like, his head hangin' down ; he never 
looked up at me ; never said a word — knowed that I wuz there all the time, but 
never said a word an' never made a sign. 

How changed Bill wuz — oh, Bill ! how changed ye wuz. There wuz furrors 
in yer face an' yer hair wuz white — as white as — as white as mine ! Looked small 
about the body, thin an' hump-shouldered. 

Jest two ol' men, that's what we wuz, an' we had been boys together! 

Well, I stood there a spell, kind uv hesitatin' like, neither uv us sayin' any- 
thing, until bimeby Bill he sort uv made a sign for me to set down. Didn't 
speak, didn't lift his eyes from the floor; only made a sign like this, in a weak, 
trcmblin' way — that wuz all — an' I sot down, an' there we both sot, neither uv us 
sayin' a word, but both settin' there an' sympathizin' as hard as we could, for that 
is the way with men. 

Bimeby, like we'd kind uv made it aforehand, we hitched over closer, for 
when folks is in sorrer an' trouble they like to be clost together. But not a 
word all the time, an', hitchin' closer an' closer together, why, bimeby, we sot 
side by side. So we sot a spell longer, lovin' an' sympathizin', as men folks do, 
thinkin' uv old times, uv our boyhood ; thinkin' uv the happiness uv the past an' 
uv the hopes them two children had brought us. The tall clock ticked, an' that 
wuz all the sound there wuz, except when Bill gin a sigh, an' I gin a sigh, too — 
to lighten the load, ye know. 

Not a word come from either uv us ; 'twuz all we could do to set there, lovin' 
each other an' sympathizin'. 

All at oncet — for we couldn't stand it no longer — all at oncct we turned an' 
groped with our hand, this a-way, faces t' other way, an' reached out — so — an' 
groped with our hands, this a-way, till we found an' held each other fast in a clasp 
uv tender meanin'. 

Then — God forgive me if T done a wrong— then I wisht I wuz a woman. 
For, bein' a woman, I could have cried: "Come. Bill, let me hold you in these 
arms ; come, let us weep together ; an' let this broken heart uv mine speak 
through these tremblin' lips to that broken heart uv yourn^ Bill, tellin' ye how 
much T love ye an' sympathize with ye!" 

But, no ! I wuz not a woman ; T wuz a man, an' bein' a man I must let my 
heart break ; I must hold my peace, an' I must make no sound. 




STEPHEN CRANE 



68 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 69 



A TALE OF MERE CHANCE 

BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THE PURSUIT OF THE TI1,ES, THE STATEMENT OF THE Ct,OCK, AND 

THE GRIP OF A COAT OF ORANGE SPOTS, TOGETHER WITH SOME CRITICISM OF A 

DETECTIVE SAID TO BF; CARVED FROM AN OI,D TABI,E-I,EG. 

BY STEPHEN CRANE 

(Born at Newark, N. J., November i, 1871) 

ES, my friend, I killed the man, but I would not have been detected in it 
were it not for some very extraordinary circumstances. I had long 
considered this deed, but I am a delicate or sensitive person, you under- 
stand, and I hesitated over it as the diver hesitates on the brink of a 
dark and icy mountain pool. A thought of the shock of the con- 
tact holds one back. 

As I was passing his house one morning, I said to myself: "Well, at any 
rate, if she loves him, it will not be for long." And after that decision I was not 
myself, but a sort of machine. 

I rang the bell and the servants admitted me to the drawmg-room. I waited 
there while the old tall clock placidly ticked its speech of time. The rigid and 
austere chairs remained in possession of their singular imperturbability, although 
of course they were aware of my purpose, but the little white tiles of the floor 
whispered one to another and looked at me. Presently he entered the room, and 
I, drawing my revolver, shot him. He screamed — you know that scream — 
mostly amazement — and as he fell forward his blood was upon the little white 
tiles. They huddled and covered their eyes from this rain. It seemed to me 
that the old clock stopped ticking as a man may gasp in the middle of a sentence, 
and a chair threw itself in my way as I sprang toward the door. 

A moment later, I was walking down the street, tranquil, you understand, 
and I said to myself: "It is done. Long years from this day I will say to her 
that it was I who killed him. After time has eaten the conscience of the thing, 
she will admire my courage." 

I was elated that the aiifair had gone off so smoothly, and I felt like return- 
ing home and taking a long, full sleep, like a tired workingman. When people 
passed me, I contemplated their stupidity with a sense of satisfaction. 

But those accursed little white tiles. 

I heard a shrill crying and chattering behind me and, looking back, I saw 
them, blood-stained and impassioned, raising their little hands and screaming: 
"Murder! It was he!" I have said that they had little hands. I am not so 



/o BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

sure of it, but they had some means of indicating me as unerringly as pointing 
fingers. As for their movement, they swept along as easily as dry, light leaves 
are carried by the wind. Always they were shrilly piping their song of my guilt. 

]\Iy friend, may it never be your fortune to be pursued by a crowd of little 
blood-stained tiles. I used a thousand means to be free from the clash-clash of 
these tiny feet. I ran through the world at my best speed, but it was no better 
than that of an ox, while they, my pursuers, were always fresh, eager, relentless. 

I am an ingenious person, and I used every trick that a desperate, fertile 
man can invent. Hundreds of times I had almost evaded them when some 
smoldering, neglected spark would blaze up and discover me. 

I felt that the eye of conviction would have no terrors for me, but the eyes 
of suspicion which I saw in city after city, on road after road, drove me to the 
verge of going forward and saying: "Yes, I have murdered." 

People would see the following, clamorous troop of blood-stained tiles, and 
give me piercing glances so that these swords played continually at my heart. 
But we are a decorous race, thank God. It is very vulgar to apprehend murderers 
on the public streets. We have learned correct manners from the English. Be- 
sides, who can be sure of the meaning of clamoring tiles ? It might be merely a 
trick in politics. 

Detectives? What are detectives? Oh. yes, I have read of them and their 
deeds, when I come to think of it. The prehistoric races must have been re- 
markable. I have never been able to understand how the detective navigated in 
stone boats. Still, specimens of their pottery excavated in Taumalipas show a 
remarkable knowledge of mechanics. I remember the little hydraulic — what's 
that? Well, what you say may be true, my friend, but I think you dream. 

The little stained tiles. My friend, I stopped in an inn at the ends of the 
earth, and in the morning they were there flying like birds and pecking at my 
window. 

I should have escaped. Heavens, I should have escaped ! What was more 
simple ? I murdered and then walked into the world, which is wide and intricate. 

Do you know that my own clock assisted in the hunt of me? They asked 
what time I left my home that morning, and it replied at once, "Half-after eight." 
The watch of a man I had chance to pass ne.ar the house of the crime told the 
people: "Seven minutes after nine." And, of course, the tall, old clock in the 
drawing-room went about day after day repeating: "Eighteen minutes after 
nine." 

Do you say that the man who caught me was very clever ? My frie d, I have 
lived long, and he was the most incredible blockhead of my experience. An en- 
slaved, dust-eating Mexican vaquero wouldn't hitch his pony to such a man. Do 
you think he deserves credit for my capture ? If he had been as pervading as the 



STEPHEN CRANE 



71 



atmosphere, he would never have caught me. If he was a detective, as you say, 
I could carve a better one from an old table-leg. But the tiles ! That is .another 
matter. At night I think they flew in a long, high flock, like pigeons. In the 
day, little mad things, they murmured on my trail like frothy-mouthed weasels. 

I see that you note these great, round, vividly orange spots on my coat. Of 
course, even if the detective were really carved from an old table-leg, he could 
hardly fail to apprehend a man thus badged. As sores come upon one in the 
plague, so came these spots upon my coat. When I discovered them I made 
effort to free myself of this coat. I tore, tugged, wrenched at it, but around my 
shoulders it was like the grip of a dead man's arms. Do you know that I have 
plunged into a thousand lakes ? I have smeared this coat with a thousand paints. 
But day and night the spots burn like lights. I might walk from this jail to-day 
if I could rid myself of this coat, but it clings — clings — clings. 

At any rate the person you call a detective was not so clever to discover a 
man in a coat of spotted orange, followed by shrieking, blood-stained tiles. Yes, 
that noise from the corridor is most peculiar. But they are always there, mutter- 
ing and watching, clashing and jostling. It sounds as if the dishes of Hades 
were being washed. Yet I have become used to it. Once, indeed, in the night, 
I cried out to them : "In God's name, go away, little blood-stained tiles." But 
they doggedly answered : "It is the law." 





JULIA WARD HOWE 



72 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 7Z 



BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

BY JULIA WARD HOWE 

(Born at New York, May 27, 1819) 

Mine eye hath seen the glory of the coming of the Lord ; 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword ; 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps ; 
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps ; 
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps ; 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel writ in rows of burnished steel ; 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal ;" 
Let the Hero born of woman crush the serpent with his heel, 
Since God is marching on. 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat ; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men befpre His judgment seat ; 
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! Be jubilant, my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea. 
With a glory in His bosom that tranfigures you and me ; 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
While God is marching on. 




HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 75 



CAPTAIN MALLINGER 

BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD 

(Born at Calais, Me., April 3, 1835) 

'HE town was in an uproar. The grocer's boy had dashed back even 
more rapidly than that young Jehu usually drove, with his eyes starting 
out of his head and his hair erect beyond its wont, and the news that 
something had happened up at Captain Mallinger's. 

"Wal, what is it?" demanded Mr. Peake, leaning across the coun- 
ter, as if he would shake the boy stammering and gasping with fright 
and excitement. 

"There ain't nobody there !" exclaimed Joe, with his returning breath. "The 
back door's bolted, an' I looked inter the winders an' everythin' was all up 
standin', an' the gravel was tore up roun' the door, an' there wa'n't a soul in the 

house, an' there was an axe with blood on it " 

"Whew ! That's bad !" cried John Dark, jumping from his seat on the head 
of a flour barrel. 

"Wal, an' w'at else did ye see ?" urged Mr. Peake, feeling his feet as Ajax did, 
"bare on bright fire to use their speed." 

"Nothin'. There wa'n't nothin" else ter see. They've made away with 'em 
an' gone off in the boss an' wagon, I tell ye!" 

"Made away with who? Who's made away with 'em?" exclaimed John 
Simpson, spilling the tobacco he was cutting and nearly upsetting the raisin 
boxes against which he was leaning. "You ain' meanin' ter say that Cap'n Mal- 
linger's ben " 

"Yes, I be," said Joe, the chattering of his teeth not yet wholly subsiding, 
and even forgetting to kick out of sight the "Bloody Butcher of Big Bend," 
which had fallen from his pocket. 

"But what for? Who's any grudge agin the Cap'n? W'y, he's the salt of 
the yarth !" appealing to John Dark, who stood staring, wide-eyed and open- 
mouthed. "'T would take an escaped convict to do him a harm." 

"There — there's ben two convicts broke loose over to Scadden prison," said 
John Dark, recovering his fallen jaw with a snap. 
"My good Lord !" said Mr. Peake. 

"An' Mrs. Mallinger, tew," said John Simpson. "W'y, I do'no' who'd 'a' 
had the heart — 'ith the face o' hern — that smile — 'twould melt a stun. My gra- 



76 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

cious ! The hull town depen's on her fer good works. Who could — Dretfle 
news !" he exclaimed, as Sam Beales sauntered in. "Joe's jes' come from the hill, 
an' Cap'n Mallinger an' his wife — I declare I don't seem ter sense it — the good 
old cap'n ! What in thunder — who under heaven — an' what motive " 

"Money," said John Dark. "He alius kep' it about him. I useter tell him 
he'd be murdered for it some day " 

"Cap'n Mallinger murdered!" 

"An' his wife," said Mr. Peake, with a solemn nod that spoke volumes. 

"No!" 

"Fact!" said John Dark. "Oh, my Lord, I'd ruther " 

"How'd you know ?" 

"Joe was up and seen it." 

"Seen what?" 

"He seen all the evidunce, an' he run roun' ter the front door an' it wa'n't 
locked, an' he went in an' there was the axe-^^ " 

"Then the murderers went out that way, depend on't. There's that much 
certing," said Sam. 

"It jes' makes yer blood run cold," said John Dark. "A feller aint safe in 
his bed these days. It's terrible !" 

"Turrible !" said Mr. Peake. 

"That's so," said the tramp who had done Mr. Peake a "hand's turn of 
work" that morning, and was eating ofif the top of a soap box the lunch of hard 
tack and red herring Mr. Peake had given him. 

"I suppose there'll be a reward," said Sam. 

"Don't talk of rewards!" cried John Simpson. "I don't need no reward for 
tryin' to lay ban's on them black-hearted villains " 

"They'll be suspicionin' every loafer in the county," said Sam, looking at the 
tramp, who was hurrying with his hard tack. 

"'Speciallv if he shows a dollar more'n they can account fur," said John 
Dark. At which Sam crammed back in his pocket the money with which he 
meant to pay ofif his long-standing score. 

"George ! I s'pose we'd orter be noterfyin' folks, 'stid er stan'in' roun' flab- 
bergasted !" said John Simpson. "There's Lawyer Parker, he's a jestice, an' 
Dr. Jones " 

"An' the minister," said Mr. Peake, pulling a straw from the dates, and suck- 
ing the end of it. 

"Yes," said John Dark, cutting himself a thin slice of cheese inadvertently. 
"Cap'n Mallinger was a piller of the church, an' a real sustainin' piller, tew." 

"An' the constable." 

"You go 'long fer all yer wuth, Joe," said John Simpson, "an' sunmion 'em 



HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD -jj 

all here. Seem's ef we'd be charged 'ith doin' of it ef we kep' it to ourselves a 
durin' minute." 

"That's so," said Mr. Peake, carefully setting the forgotten glass over the 
cheese, and dusting ofT the counter, from force of habit. 

'"T'll upset the hull neighborhood. Cap'n Mallinger was about's near ter 
every man in town as own folks. Paid full half the town an' county tax ter boot." 

"One o' the Lord's picked men," said Sam. "An' ef that's wot's come to 
him, murdered in his bed, it don't pay a feller ter walk stret, an' thet's a fac'. 
Was the bodies " 

"Wa'n't no bodies," said John Dark. "Didn't Joe say the gravel was all 
upset roun' the door? There'll hev ter be a s'arch." 

"Certing," said Mr. Peake. 

"There can't no inquest set 'thout bodies ter set on," said Sam. "The cap'n ! 
Ef anybody'd 'a' told me — Wal, I never. An' his wife. tew. There wa'n't a bet- 
ter woman 'n Mis' Mallinger in the hull o' Queens !" 

"Wat's all this?" cried John Watkins, bursting in like a thunder-clap. 
"Wat's this cock-an'-bull story, Peake, your Joe's a-tellin' all over town? Cap'n 
Mallinger — Wal," as he looked round at the white and horrified faces. "Wat 
nex' ? Wat'd anybody want — 'T must 'a' ben his money. Blamed fool ! 
Wat'd he keep his money in his house fer? An' go ter bed 'ith the front door 
open ! Trustin' folks an' temptin' Providence ! I aint no patience. By mighty, 
it's dretfle !" 

"Dretfie!" said Mr. Peake; and this time he added, "Have suthin'?" And 
they proceeded then to fortify themselves, holding the glasses to the light, shak- 
ing their heads, and swallowing as if it were a solemn act of sacrament. 

Meanwhile, as Joe was speeding along to the doctor's and the minister's, he 
had met Miss Mayne, after leaving John Watson, staying long enough to give the 
intelligence hurriedly, and she had made all haste into the Medders' house. 
"Don't speak ter me !" she said, breathlessly. "Jes' give me a dipper o' water or 
some cold tea. Pm all in a tremble. Oh, I declare, my heart's shakin' inside o' 
me! Oh, Mis' Mallinger! Mis' Mallinger!" 

"Ann Mari' Mayne, what ails ye?" cried Mrs Medders, wiping her suddy 
arms on her apron. "Hes anythin' happened. Wat — w'at's the matter? Wy 
in the name o' goodness don't yer speak ?" 

"Hes anythin' happened? Everythin's happened! Oh, Jane Medders, you 
deserve ter hear the wust ! Cap'n Mallinger an' his wife's ben killed and buried 
in the garding!" 

"I don't believe a word of it!" 

"You've no call to be doubtin' my word. I wisht you hed. Joe Simmons 
was up there an' he seen it. An' Mr. Peake, an' John Simpson, an' Sam Beale, 



78 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

ail' John Dark has gone u]i an' sent for Lawyer Parker, an' the incjnest's go- 
ing-—" 

"I'll go right up myself." said Mrs. Medders. "'Tis the least 1 ean do fer 
Mrs. Mallinger. A\ 'y. Ann ^lari". 1 ean't take it in! Don't seem no way possi- 
ble. W'y, we aint never hed a murder roun' here — There's Mis' Lawyer Par- 
ker now! Let's eall her in — 1 do'no' az we'd best, though. She's awtle strung- 
up, an' '11 hev a highsteriek or snthin'. an' keep us ter home w'en we'd orter 
be goin' " 

But Ann ^lari' had already beekoned Mrs. Parker in and had broken the 
news over her head; and Mrs. i'arker had not disappointed Mrs. Madder's ex- 
peetations. "In our midst!" she eried. ".\ murder in our midst! In this in- 
nocent hamlet !" 

"There's nobody safe." said ]\Iiss Mayne. grimly. "Thev'll be suspectin' of 
all of us." 

"Oh, who could have done it ?" cried Mrs. I'arker, a Hood of tears and a burst 
of laughter coming together. 

"There she is, keeled over on ter the sofy, an' we've got ter stav an' see to 
her," said Ann Mari'. "'Taint no jilace for woman anyway, uj) there now." 

"You can stay ef you're a mind ter; I'm goin' along," said ^Irs. Medders. 
"It's my bounden duty an' no less. I alius could see inter a grin'stone's fur ez 
any one " 

"Oh ! oh ! oh !" cried a little woman, rushing in like an .\utunm gust. "Have 
you heard ? Do you believe it can be true ? Aint there nt)thin' ter do ? Oh, I 
must do snthin" ! It seems ez ef I couldn't leave a straw unturned ter bring sech 
a wretch ter the gallers. Oh, T won't go fer to say I'd rather it 'd' 'a' ben me — 
i)Ut I'd most as lives — leastwise — " and her words failing her, the little woman 
began to cry hot, hearty, honest tears. 

"Why, Caddy, Caddy!" they exclaimed, diverted a moment from Mrs Par- 
ker's efiforts. 

"He never done no harm to a mortal soul !" Cadily cried, from the depths of 
her shawl. "He ses to me. 'You shan't never want fur nothin' so long's I live, 
Caddy,' ses he. An' he aint never took a day's rent since I've been in the house. 
An' Mis' Mallinger! Oh. Mis' Mallinger! Oh. my. my!" 

"Wal, I wa'n't goin' ter say nothin'." said Mrs. Medders. "lUit the dead 
deserve their due. An' 'twuz he give me the money to send my Danny ter the 
'cademy, an' I aint ashamed ter tell it. An' I'll never forgit. w'en he had the 
dipthery, how Mis' Mallinger — " 

"Oh!" murmured Mrs Parker, growing calmer. "We made our profession 
together, an' she's lived up to it — " 

"I aint got nothink to say agin Mis' Mallinger." 



HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD 79 

"And that's great praise from you, Ann Mari' ! An' ef we're goin' ter be 
any good at all we'd orter be goin'. You better now", dear?" to Mrs. Parker. 

"If you wouldn't mind leaving me here — at least — oh, I can't be left alone 
with this horror happening! Oh, Caddy, if you wouldn't mind staying — oh, 
there's Amelia — " 

"It's Mis' Dr. Jones !" cried Mrs. Medders, her horror, her curiosity, her 
hospitality, all working together excitedly with her tears. "Oh, Mis' Jones, did 
you ever hear anythin' like it?" 

"I don't know," said Mrs. Jones, taking the rocking chair, pufifing, and un- 
tying her bonnet, "how there was anj/thing human that could be so cruel ! I 
would as soon have thought of any one's killing a baby. It's come near giving 
me a shock. But I said to the doctor, 'Don't mind me,' I said. 'Go right along 
to that suffering angel,' said I. 'Suffering!' says he. 'She's dead and buried,' 
says he. 'Than she's a saint in heaven!' says I. And that's what she is. Oh, 
to think I should ever see the day !" And she rocked herself to and fro, in a 
luxury of woe. 

"Come and sit by mc, Amelia," said Mrs. Parker, feebly. "I like to feel you 
near. It's — it's — oh, it's awful. Who do you think it could have been?" And 
she began to shudder again as the door opened and the minister's wife joined 
them. 

"You'll excuse me, Mrs. Medders," Mrs. Brown said. "But I saw Mrs. 
Jones come in, and it's such a visitation !" 

"Oh, we're all struck of a heap, Mis' Brown !" 

"I cannot altogether believe it now. Mr. Brown has gone on, without stay- 
ing to inquire. What could any one " 

"He kep' his money in the house." 

"But he'd have given it to any one that asked for it. He was Mr. Brown's 
mainstay in the parish ; his hand was always open. I can't see into such a dark 
Providence " 

"The doctor always said Captain Mallinger was his right-hand man. If 
there was anybody needed medicines they couldn't afford ; if there was anybody 
ought to be sent to the city for an operation he couldn't do himself — though I 
think that was all nonsense, and the doctor could do it just as well as them that 
Captain Mallinger paid for doing it " 

"I don't know," said Mrs. Brown. "I suppose people are sure of what they 
are talking about ; but as for me, I simply can't believe it !" 

"If Mrs. Brown would lead in prayer," sighed Mrs. Parker, from the sofa. 

"I think we'd better be prayin' ez we go 'long," said Mrs. Medders, with de- 
termination. And then Mrs. Parker struggled to her feet, and they all sallied 
forth together. 



8o 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



"I don't feel's we've any call ter let the men go fust," said Miss Mayne. 

"No, I guess we're as much the community as they be," said Mrs Medders ; 
and they took the short cut which brought them out on the highway at the same 
time with Mr. Peake, and the constables, and the fence-viewer, and the rest, who 
were following the doctor with the minister in his gig, joined by Lawyer Parker, 
and Mrs. Peake with a shawl over her head and her voice sounding volubly, and 
half the frightened village in their train ; Mrs. Parker now nearly fainting, and 
Mrs. Brown and Amelia on either side supporting her. 

It was just as they turned the corner at the foot of the lane leading up the 
long hill that they met young Martin rattling along in the old buggy in which he 
picked up the news of a half dozen neighboring townships for his report to the 
city newspapers. 

Young Martin pulled up brisklv as the doctor's gig came along. "Going up 
the hill?" 

"Aint you pointed the wrong way?" said John Dark, solemnly. 

"No," said he. "Going home to write my story. Axe in kitchen, house all 
upset, earth turned up new in the yard — take the scare-heads just as well as if it 
hadn't been a tussle with the big gobbler, and the captain hadn't come in, in the 
middle of house-cleaning, and taken his wife the back way over to Lortonville to 
spend the night with his sister, who'd sent over word she was sick " 

"May I ask," said the minister, "how you know all this?" 

"Saw the captain. Saw the captain himself, five minutes ago, alive and 
hearty, driving in the yard." 

"If that aint a dum shame !" said Mr. Peake. 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 81 

BUD ZUNTS'S MAIL 

BEING PART OF A SHORT STORY OF THAT TITI^E 

BY RUTH McENERY STUART 

( Born in Avoyelles Parish, La. ) 

OTHIN' for you, Bud Zunts.' Seems like I ought to've heered that often 
enough to know it by this time ; but I don't. I don't even to say half 
b'lieve it when I do hear it — no, I don't." 

Bud Zunts had just come out of the Simpkinsville post-office, and, 
mounting the seat of his wagon, he turned his oxen's heavy heads 
slowly homeward. 

"Th'ain't been a night sence she's been a-sayin' it," he continued, as the 
ponderous beasts made a lunge out of the deep ruts, "th'ain't been a night in 
three year sence she's been a-sayin' it but I've mo'n half expected to see her 
han' out a letter, an' I c'n see the purty blue veins in 'er ban's when she'd be 
handin' it out." He chuckled. *"N' I c'n see 'er smile like's ef she was tickled 
to see me paid at last for stoppin' every night in all these year t' inquire. 'Tis 
purty tiresome — some nights — but of co'se when a man's a-co'tin' he can't expec' 
— he can't expec' — tell the truth, I reckon I dunno nothin' 'bout co'tin'. 1 
wusht I did know. Seem like ma tried to teach me a little bit of every kind o' 
learnin' she knew about, but don't seem like she could've knew^ much about 
co'tin', nohow. 

"Th'ain't never been a time, turn my min' free ez I can, thet I c'n understan' 
how in creation pa ever co'ted ma — th'ain't for a fac'. I've 'magined it every 
way I c'n twis' things, an' I've made 'er young an' purty, 'n' I've plumped 'er 
out — pore ma was awful thin an' rawboned, jest like me, ever sence I c'n ricollec' 
— but I've plumped 'er out in my min', 'n' I've frizzed 'er hair, 'n' smoothed 
down 'er cowlick, but even then I aint been able to see 'er bein' co'ted 'thout 
fussin' — noways. Pore ma. She cert'n'y was the best an' most worrisome 
woman thet God ever made. 

"I won't say she was the best, neither, for I've been a-co'tin' Miss C'delia 
now three year an' six mont's an' three nights to-night, 'n' watchin' 'er constant, 
an' I b'lieve she'^ez good a woman ez ma was — ever' bit — 'thout 'er worrisome 
w^ays, too — pore ma." 

Bud Zunts mused here a few moments, but presently he chuckled again : 

"Here I set a-talkin' 'bout co'tin', 's er everybody knowed it, 'n' I dunno' ez 

From " Carlotta's Intended and Other Stories," by Ruth McEnery Stuart. Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers. 




RUTH MCENERY STUART 



82 



RUTH McENERY STUART 83 

anybody do but me. Wonder ef Miss C'delia think Fd stop every night fo' four 
year — goin' on — 'n' ast for letters 'n' never git a one, 'n' wait tell the las' person 
goes out every night, 'n' stop an' lock the gate 'n' climb over the pickets (she ; 
thinks I lock the gate on the outside 'n' fling the key back — she mus' think I* 
take a mighty good aim to hit the aidge o' the door-sill every time). Wonder 
ef she do think I do that-a-way ever' night, th' way I do, jest to be a-doin' ? 'N' 
I wonder ef she ever heerd me a-tryin' the winder-shetters to make shore no- 
body'd bother 'er du'in' the night ?" 

He laughed softly. 

"Move on, Bute ! Bute 'n' Fairy 's about ez down-hearted a pair o' oxen 
to-night ez I ever see." 

The roads were heavy and wet, and man, beasts, and wagon were old, so 
the equipage moved slowly, bogging and spluttering occasionally in soft spots — 
like the soliloquy. 

"Yas," he resumed presently, "I been a-co"tin' Miss C'delia for fo' year — 
goin' on — 'n' I ain't never spoke yet — many nights ez I've laid ofif to. Ef she 
didn't keep the post-ofifice, so's I c'n see 'er ever' evenin' an' a Sund'y mornin's 
thoo the little winder, 'n' get my daily incour'gements 'n' rfz.ycour'gements, I'd 
've spoke long ago — 'n' maybe stid o' me an' Bute 'n' Fairy trudgin' along so 
slow in the mud to-night, not keerin' much whether or when we git home, I 
might be — we might be — she might 

"I do declare," the way I do set up here 'n' giggle is rrdic'lous ! 

"W'o, Bute ! These here slushy ruts is awful — mud clean up to the hub !" 

So Bud Zunts proceeded on his lonely way, until he finally reached his 
own gate — the humble entrance to the two-roomed cabin that dignified his 
meagre little farm, lying on the edge of Simpkinsville. 

After the front door closed to-night, Miss Cordelia Cummins, the post- 
mistress, stood for a long time behind her pigeon-hole barrier, looking over the 
remaining mail. 

"Here's mo' letters 'n enough for Kate Clark — 'n' papers, too," she said, 
audibly. "Some o' the papers got 'er po'try printed in 'em, an' some ain't. 
Here's one o' her's now, 'A Midnight Monody' ; wonder what that means ? It's 
hers, I'm shore, 'cause it's signed by her pen-nandy-plume, 'Silver Sheen.' 

"I s'pose that is mo' suited fo' a po'try writer's name 'n Kate Clark 'd be ; but 
seem to me I wouldn't deny my name, noways — po'try or no po'try ! 

"These paper-wrappers stick mighty tight. I 'mos' split this'n gettin' it 
back on. 

"I see she's got two letters from the telegraph station. Funny how thin 
an' fine that young man does write — like he craved to whisper. Ke writes 



84 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

prccizcly like a lady. Ef ever I did get a letter from a male person, I'd choose 
for 'im to have a mannish handwrite — 'clare I would. 

"Two f'om 'im to-day an' one to him. Well, I'm proud to see Kate's 
a-keepin' 'im where he b'longs. I dunno', either ; come to feel 'em, I b'lieve her 
one letter's heavier 'n both o' his'n ; 'n' it's writ on pink paper, too ; 'n' it's got 
smellin' stufif in it — shore's I've got a nose ! 

"I do wonder ef Kate writes love verses to 'im? I hardly b'lieve it of 'er — 
though I dunno'. 

"Here's at least fo' love letters in a row, 'n' I don't doubt the last one of 'em 
is so sweet inside thet ef they was lef open in the sun the honey-bees 'd light 
on 'em. 

"Sometimes I do wush't I'd get a letter myself — jest a reel out-'n'-out love 
letter, same ez ef I wasn't pos'mistress — not thet I'd b'lieve any written-out fool- 
ishness, of co'se, but jest fo' the fun of it. Maybe ef I didn't handle so many 
I wouldn't think about it. 

"I do hones' b'lieve thet th'ain't another person a-livin' in the country — that 
is, no grown-up person — black nor white, but's got a letter some time 'r other — 
Icss'n, of co'se. Bud Zunts. 

"But I'm jest a Icetle bit ahead o' you, Bud, on that. I knozv you ain't never 
got none, 'n' you don't know how many I get. 

"Sometimes I do hate to tell 'im th'ain't nothin' for 'im, pore boy ! Lis'n 
at me a-callin' 'im boy, 'n' he a month an' three days older'n me, an' I'm — jest 
to think, I'm purty nigh ez ole ez Bud Zunts, an' he gray ez a rat! But I 
reckon his ma worreted 'im all but gray. 

"Pore Mis' Zunts ! She was a good woman. Mis' Zunts was. but I've seen 
some worse ones I'd a heap ruther live with. 

"She cert'n'y was worrisome — but I don't doubt Bud is the best-trained 
young man in the country to-day. He turned out 'is toes, 'n' said 'ma'am' an' 
'sir,' when he warn't no mo'n knee-high to a toad-frog. An' he knew the whole 
Shorter Catechism 'fore he could pernounce a half o' the words ; but as for 
understan'in' it — well, I often think maybe that's reserved for heaven, anyway. 

"I do wonder what pore Bud does when he goes home of nights? It mus' 
be awful lonesome for 'im when the lamp's lit — ef he lights a lamp. You never 
can tell jest how low down a man lef to hisself will get. Pore Bud ! They's jest 
one thing his ma didn't teach him — an' that's cour'ge. Sometimes the most 
c'rageous person a-goin' 'ill seem to squench all the cour'ge out of another 
person, 'n' not mean to do it, neither. 

"I did start one night to say, 7'wi sorry th' ain't nothin' fo' you to-night, 
Bud Zunts,' 'n' then I wouldn't — on' / zvon't! I won't have it said that I give 'im 
that much encour'gement. 



RUTH McENERY STUART 85 

"Ef he's a womanish man, I won't match 'im by being a mannish woman. 
But I do wush't I knew ef he was wearing' woolen next to 'is skin or not." She 
sighed. ''Ef — ef Bud was to take the pneumony to-morrow — well, I dunno' 
what I'd do, but I reckon, knowin' what's on 'is min' an' what's on mine, it'd be 
my aboundin' duty to go, 'thout sayin' a word, an' nurse 'im thoo it — to sort o' 
finish out the pantomime he's done started. But it'd pleg me awful — 'deed it 
would. 

>i; >!; ;|; * * * * 

Rising, she went back to the perch, and said, slowly and distinctly, "They's 
a love-letter for you. Bud Zunts." 

"Nothin' for you, Bud Zunts," answered Polly. 

"A love-letter for you. Bud Zunts," repeated Miss Cordelia, calmly. 

"Nothin' for you Bud Zunts," insists Poll again ; and while he laughs, Miss 
Cordelia, raising her voice, reiterates : 

"A love-letter for you, Bud Zunts !" 

"Nothin' for you " 

"A love-letter " 

"Nothin' " 

"A love-letter " 

Miss Cordelia, in her growing excitement, raised her voice higher and 
higher, until it was a shrill scream, while Poll, not to be outdone, screeched his 
loudest. It was a fierce argument dramatically sustained on both sides, and 
there, in the blazing light, woman and bird appeared at their best. 

There is no telling just how long the contest might have continued or how 
it would have resulted had not a sudden swishing sound just behind her told Miss 
Cordelia that somebody was dropping a letter in the box. There was some one, 
of course, just outside the door. Would he notice the blazing light? Had he 
heard ? Starting suddenly, she quickly turned down the lamp and blew out both 
candles. Then she hurriedly got into bed. She did not even say her prayers. 
She did not even look at the letter in the box. She was too much frightened. 

Poll, awe-stricken into silence by the sudden darkness, made no sound for 
some minutes, and then, in a somewhat querulous voice, he ventured, "Nothin' 
for you. Bud Zunts." And Miss Cordelia did not contradict him. 

But when, after a prolonged silence. Poll said, "Good-night Cordelia," she 
answered, feebly, "Good-night, Polly." 

"Happy dreams !" continued Poll. 

"Happy dreams." responded a week voice from under the covers. 

"God bless you !" said the bird. But Miss Cordelia could not answer. She 
was crying. 




86 BEST THIN'GS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



MR. RABBIT, MR. FOX, AND MR. BUZZARD 

KRO:\I "UNClvE REMUS" 

BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

(Born at Eatonton, Ga., Decembers, 1848) 

'NE evening when the hltle boy whose nights witli Uncle Remus are as 
entertaining as those Arabian ones of blessed memory had finished 
supper and hurried out to sit with his venerable patron, he found the 
old man in great glee. Indeed, Uncle Remus was talking and laugh- 
ing to himself at such a rate that the little boy was afraid he had 
company. The truth is. Uncle Remus had heard the child coming, 

and when the rosy-cheeked chap put his head in at the door, was engaged in a 

monologue, the burden of which seemed to be — 

"Ole Molly Har", 
Wat you doin' dar, 
Settin' in de cornder 
Smokin' yo' seegyar?" 

As a matter of course this vague illusion reminded the little boy of the fact 
that the wicked Fox was still in pursuit of the Rabbit, and he immediately put 
his curiosity in the shape of a question. 

"Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go clean away when he got loose 
from the Tar-Baby?" 

"Bless grashus, honey, dat he didn't. Who? Him? You dunno' nuthin' 
'tall 'bout Brer Rabbit ef dat's de way you puttin' 'im down. Wat he gwinc 
'way fer? He mouter stayed sorter close twel the pitch rub ofT'n his ha'r, but 
'twern't menny days 'fo' he wuz loping up en' down de naberhood same as ever, 
en' I dunno' ef he wern't mo' sassier dan befo'. 

"Seem like dat tale 'bout how he got mixt up wid de Tar-Baby got 'roun' 
'mongst de nabers. Leas'ways, Miss Meadows en' de girls got win' un it, en de 
ncx' time Brer Rabbit paid 'um a visit, Miss Meadows tackled 'im 'bout it, en' 
de gals sot up a monst'us gigglement. Brer Rabbit, he sot up des' ez cool ez a 
cowcumber, he did, en' let 'em run on." 

"Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus?" inquired the little boy. 

"Don't ax me, honey. She wuz in de tale, Miss Meadows en' de gals wuz, 
en' de tale I give you like hit wer' gun ter me. Brer Rabbit, he sot dar, he did. 



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 87 

sorter lam-like, en' den bimeby he cross his legs, he did, and wink his eye slow, 
'en up en' say, sezee : 

" 'Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy's ridin'-hoss for thirty year, maybe mo', 
but thirty year dat I knows un,' sezee ; en' den he paid 'um his specks, en' tip his 
beaver, en' march ofif, he did, des' ez stiff en' ez stuck up ez a fire-stick. 

"Nex' day, Brer Fox cum a callin,' and w'en he 'gun fer to laff 'bout Brer 
Rabbit, Miss Meadows en' de gals, dey ups and tells 'im 'bout w'at Brer Ral)l)it 
say. Den Brer Fox grit his toof sho' 'nuff, he did, en' he look mighty dumpy, 
but when he riz fer to go he up en' say, sezee : 

" 'Ladies, I ain't 'sputin' w'at you say, but I'll make Brer Rabbit chaw up his 
words en' spit 'um out right yer whare you kin see 'im,' sezee, en' wid dat off 
Brer Fox marcht. 

"En' w'en he got in de big road, he shuck de dew off'n his tail, en' made 
a straight shoot fer Brer Rabbit's house. W'en he got dar, Brer Rabbit wuz 
'spectin' un him, en' de do' wuz shut fas'. Brer Fox knock. Nobody ain't 
ans'er. Brer Fox knock. Nobody ans'er. Den he knock ag'in — blam ! blam ! 
Den Brer Rabbit holler out, mighty weak : 

" 'Is dat you. Brer Fox? I want you ter run en' fetch de doctor. Dat bit 
er parsley w'at I e't dis mawnin' is gittin' 'way wid me. Do, please. Brer Fox, 
run quick,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 

" 'I come atter you, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 'Dere's gwinter be a 
party up at Miss Meadows',' sezee. 'All de gals '11 be dere, en' I promus' dat I'd 
fetch you. De gals, dey 'lowed dat hit wouldn't be no party 'cep'in' I fotch you,' 
sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

"Den Brer Rabbit say he wuz too sick, en' Brer Fox say he wuzzent, en' dar 
dey had it up and down, 'sputin' en' contendin'. Brer Rabbit say he can't walk. 
Brer Fox say he tote 'im. Brer Rabbit say how? Brer Fox say in his arms. 
Brer Rabbit say he drap 'im. Brer Fox 'low he won't. Bimeby Brer Rabbit 
say he go ef Brer Fox tote 'im on his back. Brer Fox say he would. Brer 
Rabbit say he can't ride widout a saddle. Brer Fox say he git de saddle. Brer 
Rabbit say he can't set in saddle 'less he have a bridle for to hoi' by. Brer Fox 
say he git de bridle. Brer Rabbit say he can't ride widout bline bridle, kaze 
Brer Fox be shyin' at stumps 'long de road, en' fling 'im off. Brer Fox say he 
git bline bridle. Den Brer Rabbit say he go. Den Brer Fox say he ride Brer 
Rabbit mos' up to Miss Meadows's, en' den he could git down en' walk de bal- 
ance ob de way. Brer Rabbit 'greed, en' den Brer Fox lit out atter de saddle 
en' de bridle. 

"Co'se Brer Rabbit know de game dat Brer Fox wuz fixin' fer ter play, en' 
he 'termin' fer ter out-do 'im ; en' by de time he koam his ha'r en' twis' his mus- 
tarsh, en' sorter rig up, yer come Brer Fox, saddle and bridle on, en' lookin' ez 



88 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

peart ez a circus pony. He trot up ter de do' en' stan' dar pawin' de ground en' 
chompin' de bit same like sho' nuff boss, en' Brer Rabbit he mount, he did, en' 
day amble ofif. Brer Fox can't see behine wid de bline bridle on, but bimeby he 
feel Brer Rabbit raise one er his foots. 

' 'Wat you doin' now, Brer Rabbit?' sezee. 

' 'Short'nin' de lef stir'p, Brer Fox,' sezee. 

'Bimeby Brer Rabbit raise de udder foot. 

' 'Wat you doin' now. Brer Rabbit?' sezee. 

' 'Pullin' down my pants. Brer Fox,' sezee. 

'All de time, bless grashus, honey. Brer Rabbit was puttin' on his spurrers. 
en' w'en day got close to Miss Meadows's, whar Brer Rabbit wuz to git ofif, en' 
Brer Fox made a motion fer ter stan' still. Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers inter 
Brer F^x flanks, en' you better b'lieve he got over groun'. W'en dey got ter de 
house, Miss Meadows en' all de girls wuz settin' on de peazzer, en' stidder stop- 
pin' at de gate Brer Rabbit rid on by, he did, en' den come gallopin' dov/n de 
road en' up ter de hoss-rack, w'ich he hitch Brer Fox at, en' den he sa'nter inter 
de house, he did, en' shake ban's wid de gals, en' set dar, smokin' his seegyar 
same ez a town man. Bimeby he draw in long puff, en' den let hit out in a 
cloud, en' squar' hisse'f back, en' holler out, he did : 

" 'Ladies, ain't I done tell you Brer Fox wuz de ridin'-hoss fer our fambly? 
He sorter losin' his gait now, but I 'speck I kin fetch 'im all right in a mont' or 
so,' sezee. 

"En' den Brer Rabbit sorter grin, he did, en' de gals giggle, en' Miss 
Meadows, she praise up de pony, en' dar wuz Brer Fox hitch fas' ter de rack, 
en' couldn't he'p hisse'f." 

"Is that all. Uncle Remus?" asked the little boy, as the old man paused. 

"Dat ain't all, honey, but 'twon't do fer to give out too much clofif for ter 
cut one pa'r pants," replied the old man, sententiously. 

When "Miss Sally's" little boy went to Uncle Remus the next night, he 
found the old man in a bad humor. 

"I ain't tellin' no tales ter bad chilluns," said Uncle Remus, curtly. 

"But, Uncle Remus, I ain't bad," said the little boy, plaintively. 

"Who dat chunkin' dem chickens dis mawnin'? Who dat knockin' out 
fokes's eyes wid dat Yallerbammer sling des' 'fo' dinner? Who dat sickin' dat 
p'inter puppy after my pig? Who dat scatterin' my ingun sets? Who dat 
flingin' rocks on top er my house, w'ich a little mo' en' one un 'em would er drap 
spang on my head?" 

"Well, now. Uncle Remus, I didn't go to do it. I won't do so any more. 
Please, Uncle Remus, if you will tell me, I'll run to the house and bring you 
some teacakes." 



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 



89 



"Seein' 'urn's better'n hearin' tell un 'um," replied the old man, the severity 
of his countenance relaxing somewhat; but the little boy darted out, and in a 
few minutes came running back with his pockets full and his hands full. ( 

"I lay yo' mammy '11 'spishun dat de rats' stummucks is widenin' in dis 
naberhood w'en sh . come fer ter count up 'er cakes," said Uncle Remus, with a 
chuckle. 

"Lemme see. I mos' dis'member .v/har'bouts Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit 

AVUZ." 

"The rabbit rode the fox to Miss Meadows's and hitched him to the horse- 
rack," said the little boy. 




HOME OF JOEI^ CHANDI^ER HARRIS 



"Why, co'se he did," said Uncle Remus. "Co'se he did. Well, Brer Rab- 
bit rid Brer Fox up, he did, en' tied 'im to de rack, en' den sot out in the peazzer 
wid de gals, a-smokin' er his seegyar wid mo' proudness dan w'at you mos' ever 
see. Dey talk, en' dey sing, en' dey play on de peanner, de gals did, twel bimeby 
hit come time for Brer Rabbit fer to be gwine, en' he tell 'um all good-by, en' 
strut out to de hoss-rack same's ef he was de king er der patter-rollers, en den 
he mount Brer Fox en' ride off. 

"Brer Fox ain't sayin' nuthin' 'tall. He des' rack off, he did, en' keep his 
mouf shet, en' Brer Rabbit know'd der wuz bizness cookin' up fer him, en' he felt 



90 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

monst'ous skittish. Brer Fox amble on twel he git in de long lane, outer sight 
er Miss Meadows's house, en' den he tu'n loose, he did. He rip en' he r'ar, en' 
he cuss en' he sw'ar; he snort en' he cavort." 

"What was he doing that for. Uncle Remus ?" the little boy inquired. 

"He wuz tryin' fer ter fling Brer Rabbit off'n his back, bless yo" soul ! But 
he des' might ez well er rastle wid his own shadder. Every time he hump hisse'f 
Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers in 'im, en' dar day had it up en' down. Brer Fox 
fa'rly to' up de groun', he did, en' he jump so high en' he jump so quick dat he 
mighty nigh snatch his own tail off. Dey kep' on gwine on dis way twel bimeby 
Brer Fox lay down en' roll over, he did, en' dis sorter unsettle Brer Rabbit, but by 
de time Brer Fox got on his footses ag'in. Brer Rabbit wuz gwine thoo de under- 
bresh mo' samer dan a race-hoss. Brer Fox, he lit out atter 'im, he did, en' he 
push Brer Rabbit so close dat it wuz 'bout all he could do fer ter git in a holler 
tree. Hole too little fer Brer Fox fer ter git in, en' he hatter lay down en' res' 
en' gadder his mine tergedder. 

"While he wuz layin' dar, Mr. Buzzard come floppin' 'long, en' seein' Brer 
Fox stretch out on de groun', he lit en' view de premusses. Den Mr. Buzzard 
sorter shake his wing, en' put his head on one side, en' say to hisse'f like, sezee : 

" 'Brer Fox dead, en' I so sorry,' sezee. 

" 'No I ain't dead, nudder,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 'I got ole man Rabbit 
pent up in yer,' sezee, 'en' I'm gwine git 'im dis time, ef it take twel Chris'mus,' 
sezee. 

"Den, atter some mo' palaver. Brer Fox make a bargain dat Mr. Buzzard 
wuz ter watch de hole, en' keep Brer Rabbit dar w'iles Brer Fox went atter his 
axe. Den Brer Fox, he lope off, he did, en' Mr. Buzzard, he tuck up his stan' 
at de hole. Bimeby, w'en all get still. Brer Rabbit sorter scramble down close 
ter de hole, he did, en' holler out : 

" 'Brer Fox ! Oh, Brer Fox !' 

"Brer Fox done gone, en' nobody say nuthin'. Den Brer Rabbit squall out 
like he wuz mad : 

"'You needn't talk 'less you wanter,' sezee; 'I know youer dar, an' I ain't 
keerin',' sezee. 'I des' wanter tell you dat I wish mighty bad Brer Tukkey 
Buzzard was here,' sezee. 

"Den Mr. Buzzard try to talk like Brer Fox : 

" ' W'at you want wid Mr. Buzzard ?' sezee. 

" 'Oh, nuthin' in 'tick'ler, 'cep' dere's de fattes' gray squir'l in yer dat ever 
I see,' sezee, 'en' ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was 'roun' he'd be mighty glad fer ter 
git 'im,' sezee. 

" 'How Mr. Buzzard gwine ter git him ?' sez de buzzard, sezee. 

" 'Well, dar's a little hole, 'roun' on de udder side er de tree,' sez Brer Rab- 



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 91 

bit, sezee, 'en' ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here so he could take up his stan' 
dar,' sezee, 'I'd drive dat squir'l out,' sezee. 

" 'Drive 'im out, den,' sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee, 'en' I'll see dat Brer Tukkey 
Buzzard gits 'im,' sezee. 

"Den Brer Rabbit kick up a racket, like he wer' drivin' sumpin' out, en Mr. 
Buzzard he rush 'roun' fer ter ketch de squir'l, en' Brer Rabbit, he dash out, he 
did, en' he des' fly fer home. 

"Well, Mr. Buzzard he feel mighty lonesome, he did, but he done prommust 
Brer Fox dat he'd stay, en' he 'termin' fer ter sorter hang 'roun' en' jine in de 
joke. En' he ain't hatter wait long, nudder, kase bimeby yer come Brer Fox 
gallopin" thoo de woods wid his axe on his shoulder. 

"'How you 'speck Brer Rabbit gittin' on, Brer Buzzard?' sez Brer Fox, 
sezee. 

" 'Oh, he in dar,' sez Brer Buzzard, sezee. 'He mighty still, dough. I 
'speck he takin' a nap,' sezee. 

" 'Den I'm des' in time fer ter wake 'im up,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. En' wid 
dat he fling ofif his coat, en' spit on his ban's, en' grab de axe. Den he draw 
back en' come down on de tree — pow ! En' eve'y time he come down wid de 
axe — pow ! — Mr. Buzzard, he step high, he did, en' hollar out : 

" 'Oh, he in dar. Brer Fox. He in dar, sho' !' 

"En' eve'y time a chip 'u'd fly off, Mr. Buzzard he'd jump, en' dodge, en' hoi' 
his head sideways, he would, en' holler : 

" 'He in dar. Brer Fox. I done heerd 'im. He in dar, sho' !' 

"En' Brer Fox, he lammed away at dat holler tree, he did, like a man mauHn' 
rails, twel bimeby, atter he done got de tree mos' cut thoo, he stop fer ter ketch 
his bref, en' he seed Mr. Buzzard laffin' behind his back, he did, en' right den en' 
dar, widout gwine enny fudder. Brer Fox he smelt a rat. But Mr. Buzzard he 
keep on holler'n : 

" 'He in dar. Brer Fox ; he in dar, sho'. I done seed 'im.' 

"Den Brer Fox, he made like he peepin' up de holler, en' he say, sezee : 

" 'Run yer, Brer Buzzard, en' look ef dis ain't Brer Rabbit's foot hangin' 
down yer.' 

"En' Mr. Buzzard, he come steppin' up, he did, same ez ef he were treddin' 
on kurkle-burrs, en' he stick his head in de hole ; en' no sooner did he done dat 
dan Brer Fox grab 'im. Mr. Buzzard flap his wings, en' scramble 'roun' right 
smartually, he did, but 'twan' no use. Brer Fox had de 'vantage er de grip, he 
did, en' he hilt 'im right down ter de groun'. Den Mr. Buzzard squall out, 
sezee : 

" 'Lemme 'lone, Brer Fox. Tu'n me loose,' sezee. 'Brer Rabbit '11 git out. 
Youer gittin' close at 'im,' sezee, en' leb'm mo' licks '11 fetch 'im,' sezee. 



92 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



" 'I'm nigher ter you, Brer Buzzard,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, 'dan I'll be ter 
Brer Rabbit dis day,' sezee. 'Wat you fool me fer?' sezee. 

" 'Lenmie 'lone. Brer Fox,' sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee; 'my ole 'oman waitin' 
fer me. Brer Rabbit in dar,' sezee. 

" 'Dar's a bunch er his fur on dat blackbe'y bush,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, 'en' 
dat ain't de way he come,' sezee. 

"Den Mr. Buzzard up'n tell Brer Fox how 'twuz, en' he 'low'd, Mr. Buzzard 
did, dat Brer Rabbit wuz de low-downest w'atsizname w'at he ever run up wid. 
Den Brer Fox say, sezee : 

" 'Dat's needer here ner dar. Brer lUizzard,' sezee. 'I lef" you ter watch 
dis yer hole, en' I lef Brer Rabliit in dar. I comes back en' I fines you at de 
hole, en' Brer Rabbit ain't in dar,' sezee. 'I'm gwinter make you pay fer 't. I 
done bin tampered wid twcl plum down ter de sapsucker '11 set on a log en' sassy 
me. I'm gwinter fling you in a bresh-heap en' burn you up,' sezee. 

" 'Ef you fling me on der fire, Brer Fox, I'll fly 'way,' sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee. 

" 'Well, den, I'll settle yo' hash right now,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, en' wid 
dat he grab Mr. Buzzard by de tail, he did, en' make fer ter dash 'im 'g'in de 
groun', but des' 'bout dat time de tail fedders come out, en' Mr. Buzzard sail of¥ 
like wunner dese yer berloons, en' ez he riz he holler back : 

" 'You gimme good start. Brer Fox,' sezee, en' Brer Fox sot dar en' watch 
'im fly outer sight." 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



THE SONG OF THE CAMP 

BY BAYARD TAYLOR 

(Born at Kennett Square, Pa., January ii, 1825; died at Berlin, Germany, December 19, 1878) 

"Give US a song!" the soldiers cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 

Lay, grim and threatening, under ; 
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 

No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said : 

"We storm the forts to-morrow ; 
Sing while we may, another day 

Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon : 
Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory : 
Each heart recalled a different name. 

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song. 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak. 

But, as the song grew louder, 
Something upon the soldier's cheek 

Washed off the stains of powder. 

Reproduced by kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., of lioston. 




BAYARD TAYLOR 



94 



BAYARD TAYLOR 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset's embers, 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters, 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
For a singer, dumb and gory ; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing : 

The bravest are the tenderest — 
The loving are the daring. 



95 





PHILANDER DEMING 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 97 



JOHN'S TRIAL 

BY PHILANDER DEMING 

(Born at Carlisle, N. Y., February 6, 1S29) 

UST where the Wilderness road of the Adirondack Highlands strikes the 
edge of the great Champlain Valley, in a little clearing, is a lonely log 
^^ house. On the tenth day of July, 1852, a muscular, gaunt woman stood 
" at the door of the house, overlooking the vast extent of the valley. 

From her standpoint, ten miles of green forest swept down to the lake's 
winding shore. She saw the indentation made in the shore line by "the 
bay," and beyond, the wide waters gleaming in the fervid brightness of Summer. 
Specks were here and there discernible in the light, flashed back from the blue, 
mirror-like surface, and by long watching it could be seen that these specks were 
moving to and fro. 

The woman knew that these distant moving atoms were boats freighting 
lumber through Lake Champlain. She knew there was but one boat that 
would be likely to turn aside ar.d come into the little bay, and that this boat 
would be her son John's sloop. 

That was why she watched so anxiously a speck that neared the bay, and 
at length entered it. To make doubly sure, she brought to bear an old spyglass, 
whose principal lens was cracked entirely through. It gave her a smoky view 
of the famous sloop, "The Dolly Ann," John's property ; and then she w^as 
entirely certain that her son, who had been three weeks absent on his voyage, 
was coming home. 

Jupiter, the house-dog, who had been watching her, seemed to know it, too, 
perfectly well ; for, as she turned from her survey through the glass, his canine 
nature developed a degree of wriggling friskiness, of which the grave old dog 
seemed half ashamed. He whined, and walked about the door-yard for a 
few moments, then gave his mistress a long, steady look, and, seeming satisfied 
with what he read in her face, jumped over the fence, and started down the road 
into the valley at a full run. 

The woman knew that three or four hours must yet elapse before John and 
Jupiter would come along the path together, tired by their long tramp up the 
mountain side. She thought and waited, as lonely mothers think and wait for 
absent sons. 

At about four o'clock a young, dark-eyed man and the dog came up the road 

By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston. 



98 BEST THIXGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

and to the house. "Heigho, mother, all well?" was the man's greeting. The 
woman's greeting was only "How do you do, John?" There was no show of 
sentiment, not even a hand-shake ; but a bright look in the man's face, and a 
tremor in the voice of the woman conveyed the impression that these plain people 
felt a great deal more than they expressed. 

Two hours passed away; and, after supper, the neighbors, who had seen 
John and the dog come up the road, dropped in for a talk with "the captain," 
as John was called by his friends. 

Soon the inquiry was made, "Where did you leave your cousin William ?" 

John had taken his cousin William, who lived upon the lake shore, with 
him upon this last trip, and hence the question. 

But John did not answer the question directly. He seemed troubled and un- 
happy about it. He finally acknowledged that he and William had not agreed, 
and that high words and blows had passed between them, and added that his 
cousin had finally left the boat and gone away in a hufif, he knew not where, but 
somewhere into the pineries of Canada. He declared, getting warm in his 
recollection of the quarrel, that he "didn't care a darn" where Will went, anyway. 

A month passed: it was August. Cousin Will did not return. But cer- 
tain strange stories came up the lake from Canada, and reached the dwellers 
along the Adirondack Wilderness road. No Cousin William had been seen in 
the pineries ; but just across the Canada line, at the mouth of Fish River, where 
the sloops were moored to receive their lading of lumber, a bruised, swollen, fes- 
tering corpse had risen and floated in the glare of a hot August day. The boat- 
men rescued it, and buried it upon the shore. They described it as the body of 
a hale, vigorous young man, agreeing in height, size and appearance with Cousin 
William. 

And there was another story told by the captain of a sloop which had been 
moored at the mouth of Fish River, nearby John's sloop, on the fatal voyage 
from which Cousin William had not returned. 

The captain said that, upon the fourth of July, he had heard quarreling 
upon John's sloop all the afternoon, and had noticed that only two men were 
there. He thought the men had been drinking. At nightfall there was a little 
lull ; but soon after dark the noise broke out again. He could see nothing 
through the gloom ; but he heard high and angry words, and at length blows, 
and then a dull, crushing thud, followed by a plunge into the water; and then 
there was entire silence. He listened for an hour, in the stillness of the Summer 
night, but heard no further sound from the boat. In the early gray of the 
next morning, the captain, looking across the intervening space to John's sloop, 
which he described as hardly a stone's-throw from his own, saw a hat lying upon 
the deck, and, using his glass, was confident that he saw "spatters of blood." 



PHILANDER DEMING 99 

He thought it '"'none of his business," and, taking advantage of a light breeze, 
sailed away and said nothing. But, when the floating corpse was found, he felt 
sure there had been a murder, and, as he expressed it, felt bound to tell his story 
like an honest man, and so told it. 

Putting these things together, it soon grew to be the current opinion upon 
the lake that Captain John had murdered his cousin William. The dwellers 
upon the Wilderness road also came, by slow degrees and unwillingly, to the 
same conclusion. It was felt and said that John ought to be arrested. 

Accordingly, on a dreary day in November, two officers from the county 
town, twenty miles away from the lake shore, came and climbed the steep road 
to the lonely log house, and arrested John. It was undoubtedly a dreadful 
blow to those two lonely people living isolated in a wilderness. Perhaps there 
ought to have been some crying and a scene ; but there was no such thing. The 
officers testified that neither John nor his mother made any fuss about it. There 
was a slight twitching of the strong muscles of her face as she talked with the 
officers, but no other outward sign. 

John gave more evidence of the wound he felt. He was white and quivering ; 
yet he silently, and without objection, made ready to go with the officers. He 
was soon prepared, and they started. John, as he went out of the door, turned 
and, said, "Good-by ; it will all be made right, mother." She simply answered, 
"Yes, good-by; I know it, my son." 

The trio went on foot down the road to the next house, where the officers 
had left their team. Jupiter, standing up with his forepaws upon the top of the 
fence, gazed wistfully after them. When they passed around the bend of the 
road, out of sight, Jupiter went into the house. The strong woman was there 
about her work, as usual ; but the heavy tears would now and then fall upon the 
hard pine floor. She knew that her own boy would spend the coming night in 
the county jail. 

At twelve o'clock of that chill November night, the woman and the dog 
went out of the house ; she fastened the door, and then they went together down 
the dark mountain road, while the Autumn winds swept dismally through the 
great wilderness, and the midnight voice of the pines mourned the dying year. 
The next day, at noon, a very weary woman on foot, with a small bundle and a 
large dog, put up at the village hotel hard by the county jail. 

Another day passed, and then the preliminary examination came on before 
a Justice, to determine whether there was sufficient evidence to hold John in 
custody until a grand jury of the county should be assembled for the next Court 
of Oyer and Terminer. 

Three days were spent in this examination before the Justice. The captain 
of the sloop who had overheard the quarrel in the night told his story, and the 



loo BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

boatmen who had found the body told theirs. Two men who had been the crew 
of John's Httle vessel were also called ; but they could tell little more than that 
they were absent on shore upon the Fourth of July, and when they returned to the 
vessel William had gone, they knew not where nor why. 

The evidence against John seemed to the Magistrate clear and conclusive. 
But the counsel for the accused (employed by John's mother) took the ground 
that, as the offence w^as committed in Canada, a Justice in the United States had 
no jurisdiction in the matter. 

This view prevailed, and after five days the accused was set at liberty. But 
that voice of the people, which the ancient proverb says is like the voice of God. 
had decided that John was guilty. It was under this crushing condemnation that 
John and his mother left the county town on a cold December day, turning their 
steps homeward; and at evening they climbed the acclivity so familiar to them, 
and reached the lonely log house upon the mountain. Their neighbors w^ere 
glad to see them back again, but were plain to say that "it appeared like as if 
John was guilty." These dwellers in the solitudes were accustomed to speak 
truly what they thought. John and his mother, too, spoke openly of this matter. 
It was only of showing affection and love that these people were ashamed and 
shy. They both admitted to their neighbors that the evidence was very strong; 
but John added quietly that he was not guilty, as if that settled the whole matter. 

But the voice of the* people, and a sense of justice, would not let this crime 
rest. It came to be very generally known that a man guilty of murder was 
living near the shore of Lake Champlain unmolested. Arrangements were 
effected by which it came to pass that the Canadian authorities made a forma! 
application to the United States for the delivery of one John Wilson, believed 
to be guilty of the murder of his cousin, William Wilson. 

And so again two officers, this time United States officials, climbed up to the 
little log house upon the edge of the great valley. Through a drifting, blinding- 
storm of snow they were piloted by a neighbor to the lonely house. They made 
known their errand ; and, in course of half an hour, the officers and their prisoner 
were out in the storm en route for the distant city of Montreal. 

It was many days before the woman saw her son again. For four months 
John was imprisoned, awaiting his trial before the Canadian courts. Doubtless 
those four months seemed long to the solitary woman. She had not much op- 
]-)ortunity to indulge in melancholy fancies ; she spent much of her time in pulling 
brush and wood out of the snow and breaking it up with an axe, so as to adapt 
it to the size of her stove. 

The neighbors tried to be kind, and often took commissions from her to the 
store and the grist-mill in the valley. "But, after all," said Pete Searles, one of 
John's friends, in speaking of the matter afterward, "what could neighbors amount 



PHILANDER DEMING loi 

to, when the nearest of them Hved a mile away, and all of them were plain to say 
that they believed she was the mother of a murderer?" 

But the neighbors said the woman did not seem to mind the solitude and the 
roug-h work. Morning, noon and night she was out in the snow or the storm at 
the little hovel of a barn back of the house, taking care of two cows and a few 
sheep which were hers and John's. At other times travelers upon the Wilder- 
ness road would see her gaunt, angular figure clambering down a rocky ridge, 
dragging poles to the house to be cut up for fuel. 

She received two letters from John in the course of the Winter. The first 
told her that he was imprisoned, and awaiting his trial in Montreal ; and the next 
one said that his trial had been set down for an early day in March. 

This correspondence was all the information the mother had of her son; 
for the lake was frozen during the Winter, so that the boats did not run, and no 
news could come from Canada by the boatmen. 

When March came and passed away without intelligence from John, it was 
taken by the dwellers upo'-' the lake shore and along the Wilderness road as a sure 
indication that he had been convicted of the crime. A letter or newspaper an- 
nouncing the fact was confidently looked for by the neighbors whenever they 
went to the distant post-office for their weekly mail. 

As March went out, and Spring days and sunshine came, it was noticed that 
the face of John's mother looked sharp and white ; but she went about the same 
daily duties as before, without seeming to feel ill or weak. 

On a splashy April day, full of sunshine, she stood on the rocky ridge back 
of the house, looking down upon the lake. A few early birds had come back, 
and were twittering about the clearing. Although the snow still lingered in 
patches upon the highlands, the valley looked warm below, and the first boats of 
the season were dotting the wide, distant mirror of "Old Champlain." A man 
came slowly up the muddy line of road, through the gate, and around the house ; 
then first the woman saw him. A slight spasm passed over her face. There 
was a little pitiful quiver of the muscles about the mouth, and then she walked 
slowly down the ridge to where the man stood. She struggled a little with her- 
self before she said, "Well, John, I am glad to see you back." 

John tried to be cool also ; but nature was too much for him. He could not 
raise his eyes to hers ; and his simple response, "Yes, mother," was chokingly 
uttered. 

The two walked into the house together in the old familiar way. The 
woman, without a word, began to spread the table ; and her son went out and 
prepared fuel, and, bringing it in, replenished the fire. Then he sat down in his 
accustomed place by the stove, with a pleasant remark about how well the fire 



102 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

burned, and how good it seemed to be home again. And the woman spoke a 
few kind, motherly words. 

It was the way thev had always done when John came back ; but now there 
was a great sadness in it, for he had come "from prison." Jupiter seemed fully 
to realize the situation. He exhibited none of that friskiness which character- 
ized the welcome he had usually given ; but, when John was seated, the old dog 
came slowly up to him, laid his forepaws and his head in his master's lap, and 
looked sadly in his face. 

As they sat down to supper, John began to tell of his fare in the jail at IVIon- 
treal, and to speak freely of his life there. "Will you have to go back?'' said his 
mother, with that quiver about the mouth again. "No, mother," said John ; "it 
is finished, and I am discharged." 

After supper the story was told over, how well John's counsel had worked 
for him, and how the Judge had said there was not sufificient evidence to convict 
of so great a crime. 

John continued from this time on, through the Spring, to live at home. He 
allowed his sloop to float idly in the bay, while, as he said, he himself rested. 
The truth was, he saw, as others did not, that his mother had carried a fearful 
weight, and now, when it was lifted by his return, that the resources of her life 
were exhausted. The change, not yet apparent to other eyes, was clear to his 
vision. So it is that these silent spirits read each other. 

As the warm weather advanced, the strong woman became weak ; and, as the 
June flowers began to bloom, she ceased to move about much, and sat the most 
of each day in a chair by the open door. John managed the house, and talked 
with his mother. Her mind changed with the relaxation of her physical frame. 
She no longer strove to hide her tears, but, like a tired infant, would weep, with- 
out restraint or concealment, as she told her son of the early loves and romance 
of her girlhood life in a warm valley of the West. He learned more of his 
mother's heart in those June days than he had surmised from all he had known of 
her before. And he understood what this predicted. He felt that the heart 
nearest his own was counting over the treasures of life ere it surrendered them 
forever. 

There was no great scene when the woman died. It was at evening, just as 
the July fervors were coming on. She had wept much in the morning. As the 
day grew warm she became very weak and faint, and about noon was moved 
by her son from her chair to her bed, and so died as the sun went down. 

John was alone in the house when she died. Since his return from Alon- 
treal, he had been made to feel that he had but one friend besides his mother. 
Only one neighbor had called upon him. and that was Pete Searles. He had 
ever proved true. But John did not like to trouble his one friend, who lived 



PHILANDER DEMING 103 

two miles away, to come and stay with him during the night; so he Hghted a 
candle, took down from a shelf a little Bible and hymn book that he and his 
mother had carried on an average about four times a year to a school-house used 
as a church, some six miles away ; and so, alone with the dead, he spent the hours 
in reading and tears and meditation. 

In the morning he locked the door of his home, and walked "over to Pete's." 
As he met his friend, he said in a clear voice, but with eyes averted, "She has 
gone, Pete. If you will just take the key and go over there, I'll go down to the 
lake and get the things, and tell Downer, and we'll have the funeral, say on 
Thursday." 

Pete hesitated a moment,- then took the key John offered him, and said, 
"Yes, John ; I will tell my woman, and we will go over and fix it, and be there 
when you come back." And so John went on his way. "Downer" was the min- 
ister, and "the things" were a coffin and a shroud. 

On Thursday was the funeral. Pete took care to have all the people of the 
neighborhood there, although it hardlv seemed as if John desired it. The pop- 
ular voice, having once decided it, still held John as a murderer, and claimed that 
he was cleared from the charge only by the tricks of his lawyer. John knew of 
this decision. At the funeral he was stern, cold, white and statue-like. While 
others wept, but few tears fell from his eyes ; and even these seemed wrung from 
him by an anguish for the most part suppressed or concealed. 

He chose that his mother should be buried, not in the "burying-ground" at 
the settlement, but upon their own little farm where she had lived. And so, in 
a spot below the rocky ridge, where wild violets grew, she was laid to rest. 

John spent the night following the funeral at Pete's house, then returned to 
his own home, and from that time his solitary life began. He took his cattle and 
his sheep over to Pete's, made all fast about his home, and resumed his boating 
upon Lake Champlain. He fully realized that he was a marked man. He was 
advised, it was said, even by his own legal counsel, to leave the country, and to 
leave his name behind him ; but no words influenced him. Firm and steady in 
his course, strictly temperate and just, he won respect where he could not gain 
confidence. 

Ten years rolled by. Captain John still was a boatman, and still kept his 
home at the lonely log house on the edge of the great valley. From each voyage 
he returned and spent a day and night at the old place ; and it was noticed that a 
strong, high paling was built around his mother's grave, and a marble head- 
stone was placed there, and other flowers grew with the wild violets. Even in 
Winter, when there was no boating, and he boarded down by the lake, he made 
many visits to the old homestead. His figure, which, though youthful, was now 
growing gaunt and thin, as his mother's had been, was often seen by Pete at 



I04 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

nightfall upon the top of a certain rocky ridge, standing out clear and sharp 
against the cold blue steel of the Winter sky. 

John had no companions, and sought none. The young men and women 
of his set had married and settled in life ; he was still the same. 

But there came a change. Eleven years had passed since the mother died, 
and it was June again. John was spending a day at the old place once more. 
He sat in the door, looking out on the magnificent landscape — the broad lake 
and the dim line of mountains away across the valley. The lovely day seemed 
to cheer this stern, lonely man. 

Three persons came up the road ; they advanced straight to where John was 
sitting. One of them stepped forward, looked John steadily in the face, held 
out his hand to him, and said, "John, do you know me?" 

The voice seemed to strike him with a sharp, stunning shock. He quivered, 
held his breath, stared into the eyes of the questioner, and then, suddenly be- 
coming unnaturally cool and collected, said, "Is it you, William?" 

The two who stood back had once been John's warmest friends. They now 
came forward, and, with such words as they could command, told the story of 
William's sudden return, and sought for themselves forgiveness for the cruel and 
false suspicion which had so long estranged them from their friend. 

John seemed to hear this as one in a dream. He talked with William and 
the men, in a manner that seemed strangely cold and indifferent, about where 
William had been voyaging so long in distant seas and of his strange absence. 
A quarter of an hour passed away. The men proposed that John should go with 
them to their homes, and said there would be a gathering of friends there. They 
pressed the invitation with warmth, and such true feeling as our voices express 
when a dear friend has been greatly wronged, and we humbly acknowledge it. 

John said absently, in reply, that he did not know. He looked uneasily 
around as if in search of something — perhaps his hat. He essayed to rise from 
his chair, but could not, and in a moment he fell back, ashy pale, fainting and 
breathless. The men had not looked for this ; but, accustomed as they were to 
the rough life of the Wilderness, they were not alarmed. They fanned the faint- 
ing man with their straw hats, and, as soon as water could be found, applied it 
to his hands and face. He soon partially recovered, and, looking up, said in a 
broken voice, "Give me a little time, boys." At this hint the two old friends, 
who were now crying, stepped out of the door, and Cousin William sat down out 
upon the doorstep. 

John found that a little time was not enough. He had traveled too long 
and far in that fearful desert of loneliness easily or quickly to return. A nervous 
fever followed the shock he received, and for two months he did not leave the 
homestead, and was confined to his bed. But the old house was not lonely ; the 



PHILANDER DEMING 



105 



men and women came, both his old friends and some new-comers, and tried to 
make up to him in some degree the love and sympathy he had so long missed. 
But for many days it was evident that their kindness pained and oppressed him. 

"It appears like," said Pete, "that a rough word don't hurt him ; but a kind 
one he can't stand." And this was true. His soul was fortified against hatred 
and contempt ; but a kind voice, or a gentle caress, seemed to wound him so that 
he would sob like an infant. 

As he recovered from his illness, he continued gentle, kind and shrinking 
to a fault. By the operation of some spiritual law that I do not fully comprehend, 
he was, after his recovery, one of those who win a strange affection from others. 
His influence seemed like a mild fascination. It was said of him in after years 
that he was more truly loved, and by more people, than any other man or woman 
in all the settlements round. Children loved him with a passionate attachment, 
and the woman of child-like nature, whom he made his wife, is said to have died 
of grief at his death. He departed this life at the age of thirty-eight years ; and 
he sleeps on the edge of the great valley, with his mother and his wife beside him. 








io6 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



ACROSS THE JUMPING SAND HILLS 

BY GILBERT PARKER 

(Born in Canada, November 23, 1862) 

ERE, now, trader, aisy, aisy ; quicksands I've seen along the sayshore, 
and up to me half ways I've been in wan, wid a double and twist in the 
rope to pull me out ; but a suckin' sand in the open plain — aw, trader, 
aw, the like o' that, no, niver a bit, aw !" So said IMacavoy, the giant, 
when the thing was discussed in his presence. 

"Well, I tell you it's true, and they're not three miles from Fort 
O'Glory. The company's men don't talk about it; what's the use? Travelers 
are few that way, and you can't get the Indians within miles of them. Pretty 
Pierre knows all about them, better than any one else, almost. He'll stand by 
me in it — eh, Pierre?" Pierre took no notice, and was silent for a time, intent 
on his cigarette, and in the pause Mowley, the trapper, said : 

"Pierre's gone back on you, trader. Perhaps you haven't paid him for the 
last lie. I go one better, you stand by me — my treat — that's the game !" 

"Aw, the like o' that," added Macavoy, reproachfully. "Aw, yer tongue to 
the roof o' yer mouth, Mowley! Liars all men may be, but that's wid wimmin 
or landlords. But, Pierre, ofif another man's bat like that! Aw, Mowley, fill 
your mouth wid the bowl o' yer pipe." 

Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another cigarette as he did 
so, but he seemed to be thinking of a distant matter. INIeeting the three pairs of 
eyes fixed on him, his own held them for a moment musingly ; then he lit his 
cigarette, and, half reclining on the bench where he sat, he began to speak, talk- 
ing into the fire, as it were : 

"I was at Guidon Hill, at the company's post there. It was the fall of the 
year, when you feel that there is nothing so good as life and the air drinks like 
wine. You think that sounds like a woman or a priest ? Mais, no. The seasons 
are strange. In the Spring I am lazy and sad ; in the Fall I am gay ; I am for 
the big things to do. This matter was in the Fall. I felt that I must move ; yet, 
what to do? There was the thing. Cards? Of course; but that's only for 
times, not for all seasons. So I was like a wild dog on a chain. I had a good 
horse, Tophet, black as a coal, all raw bones and joint, and a reach like a moose. 
His legs worked like piston rods. But, as I said, I did not know where to go 
or what to do. So we used to sit at the post loafing ; in the daytime watching the 



GILBERT PARKER 107 

plains, all panting for travelers, like a young bride waiting her husband for the 
first time." 

Macavoy regarded Pierre with rich delight. He had an unctuous spirit and 
his heart was soft for women, so soft that he never had one on his conscience, 
though he had brushed gay smiles ofif the lips of many with his own. But that 
was an amiable weakness in a strong man. 

"Aw, Pierre," he said, coaxingly, "kape it down ; aisy, aisy, me heart's goin' 
like a trip-hammer at thought av it. Aw, yis ; aw, yis, Pierre." 

"Well, it was like that to me — all sun and a sweet sting in the air. At 
night, to sit and tell tales and such things, and perhaps a little brown brandy, a 
look at the stars, a half-hour with the cattle — the same old game. Of course, 
there was the wife of Hilton, the factor — fine, always fine to see, but deaf and 
dumb. We were good friends, Ida and me. I had a hand in her wedding. 
Holy ! I knew her when she was a little girl. We could talk together by signs. 
She was a good woman ; she had never guessed at evil. She was quick, too, like 
a flash, to read and understand without words. A face was a book to her. 

"\^ery good. One afternoon we were all standing outside the post, when 
we saw some one ride over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes. I can- 
not tell quite how ; but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut against the 
sky that they looked very large and peculiar; there was something in the air to 
magnify. They paused for a moment on the top of the Divide, and it seemed 
like a messenger, out of the Strange Country at the farthest North, the place of 
legends. But, of course, it was only a traveler, like ourselves, for in a half-hour 
she was with us. 

"Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She did not try to hide it ; she had 
dressed so for ease. She would make a man's heart leap in his mouth — if he 
was like Alacavoy, or the pious Mowley there." 

Pierre's last three words had a touch of irony, for he knew that the trapper 
had a precious tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed that way, and a 
bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled sourly, but Macavoy 
laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his pipe-stem luxuriously. 

"Aw, now, Pierre, all me little failin's — aw !" he said. 

Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the other elbow, and cherish- 
ing his cigarette, presently continued : 

"She had come far, and was tired to death, so stifif that she could hardly get 
from her horse ; and the horse, too, was ready to drop. Handsome enough she 
looked for all that, in man's clothes and a peaked cap, with a pistol in her belt. 
She wasn't big built — just a feathery kind of sapling — but she was set fair on 
her legs like a man, and a hand that was as good as I have seen, sq strong and 
fine, and like silk and iron with a horse. Well, what was the trouble? for I saw 



loS BEST THINGS FROM A.MERICAN LITERATURE 

that there was trouble. Her eyes had a hunted look and her nose breathed like 
a deer's in the chase. All at once, when she saw Hilton's wife, a cry came from 
her and she reached out her hands. What would women of that sort do? They 
were both of a kind. They got into each other's arms. After that there was 
nothing for us men but to wait. All women are the same, and Hilton's wife was 
like the rest. She must get the secret first, then the men should know. We had 
to wait an hour. Then Hilton's wife beckoned to us. We went inside. The 
girl was asleep. There was something in the touch of Hilton's wife like sleep 
itself — like music. It was her voice — that touch. She could not speak with her 
tongue, but her hands and face were language and music. Bien, there was the 
girl asleep, all clear of dust and stain; and that fine hand, it lay loose on her 
breast, so quiet — so quiet. Enfin, the real story, for how she lay there does not 
matter, but still it was good to see, when we knew the story." 

The trapper was laughing silently to himself, to hear Pierre in this romantic 
Uiood. A woman's hand ; it was the game for a boy, not an adventurer, for the 
trapper's only creed was that women were like deer — spoils for the hunter. 
Pierre saw it, but he was above petty anger. He merely said : 

"If a man have an eye to see behind the face, he understands the foolish 
laugh of a man. or the hand of a good woman ; that is much. So Hilton's wife 
told us all. She had ridden two hundred miles from the southwest, and was 
making for Fort Micah. sixty miles further north. For what? She had loved 
a man against the will of her people. There had been a feud, and Garrison — 
that was the lover's name — was the last on his own side. There was trouble at 
a Hudson's Bay Company's post, and Garrison shot a half-breed. Alen say he 
was right to shoot him, for a woman's name must be safe up here, besides the 
half-breed drew first. Well, Garrison was tried and must go to jail for a year. 
At the end of that time he would be free. The girl, Janie, knew the day. Word 
had come to her. She made everything ready. She knew her brothers were 
watching — her three brothers and two other men who had tried to get her love* 
She knew, also, that the five would carry on the feud against the one man. So, 
one. night she took the best horse on the ranch, and started away towards Fort 
Micah. Alors, you know how she got there, after two days' hard riding, enough 
to kill a man. and over fifty yet to do. She was sure her brothers were on her 
Irack. But if she could get to Fort Micah, and be married to Garrison before 
they came, she wanted no more. There were only two horses of use at Hilton's 
post then ; all the rest were away or not fit for hard travel. There was my To- 
phet, and a lean chestnut with a long propelling gait, and not an ounce of loose 
skin on him. There was but one way; the girl must get there. Allons, what is 
the good ! What is life without these things? The girl loves the man ; she must 
have him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and his wife and me at the post. 



GILBERT PARKER ^ 109 

and Hilton was lame from a fall, and one arm in a slingf. If the brothers fol- 
lowed — well, Hilton could not interfere ; he was a company's man, but for my- 
self, as I said, I was hungry for adventure. I had an ache in my blood for some- 
thing. I was tingling to my toes ; my heart was thumping in my throat. All 
the cords of my legs were straightening, like I was in the saddle." 

Pierre sat up. It seemed absurd for him to speak as one who could be hot 
and shivering with excitement, for his movements were always quiet and pre- 
cise as a hammer. But in his eyes there was a furnace burning, and his small, 
iron hand caught the air with a snap. Macavoy had seen Pierre when dangers 
crowded round them both, and he knew that the little man was worth three of 
himself, in spite of his own great height. For the others, they did not know, 
and if they had lived with Pierre all their lives they would never have understood 
him. 

"Aw, Pierre," said Macavoy, admiringly — "aw, the ache in yer blood — that's 
it. Aw, yis, yis, an' yer thighs are.bendin' like wire, and the prairie beyant, an' 
the lady there, asleep wid the hand fallin' soft where the heart beats up like the 
swell of a tide. Aw, yis, the like o' that — swate, swate, an' you wid the ache in 
yer blood, and the long chestnut pawin' the ground — aw, yis." 

Pierre nodded at Macavoy pleasantly, for after his fashion he cared for the 
giant as he had once cared for Shon McGann, and a little man loves the admir- 
ation of a large man, as Pierre himself had said more than once — he knew man's 
vanity and his own weaknesses. But he turned his looks on the trapper now, 
for it was his way to conquer at the points of great disadvantage ; not by many 
wonders showing, but by a deep persistence and a singular personal force. 

"She slept for three hours. I got the two horses saddled. Who could tell 
but she might need help? I had nothing to do. I knew the shortest way to 
Fort Micah, every foot, and then it is good to be ready for all things. I told 
Hilton's wife what I had done. She was glad. She made a gesture at me as to 
a brother, and then began to put things in a bag for us to carry. She had settled 
all how it was to be. She had told the girl. You see, a man may be — what is it 
they call me — a plunderer — and yet, a woman will trust him, comme ca !" 

"Aw, yis ; aw, yis, Pierre ; but she knew yer hand and yer tongue niver wint 
ag'in a woman, Pierre. Naw, niver a wan — aw, swate, swate she was, wid a heart 
• — a heart, Hilton's wife ; aw, yis !" 

Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. 

"The girl waked after three hours with a start. Her hand caught at her 
heart. 'Oh!' she said, still staring at us, 'I thought they had come!' 
A little later she and Tilton's wife went into another room. All at once 
there was a sound of horses without, and then a knock at the door, 
and four men entered. They were the girl's hunters. It was hard to tell 



no BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

what to do all in a minute, but I saw at once the best thing was to act for all 
and to get all the men inside the house. So I whispered to Hilton, and then 
pretended that I was a great man in the company. I ordered Hilton to have the 
horses cared for, and, not giving the men time to speak, I fetched out the old 
brown brandy, wondering what could be done. There was no sound from the 
other room, though I thought I heard a door open once. Hilton played the 
game well, and showed nothing when I ordered him about, and lied with me 
when I said no girl had come, laughing when they told why they were after her. 
More than one did not believe at first, but pshaw! what have I been doing all 
my life to let such fellows doubt me? So the end of it was that I got them all 
inside the house. There was one thing, their horses were all fresh, as Hilton 
whispered to me. They had only ridden them a few miles ; they had stolen or 
bought them at a ranch to the west of us. I could not make up my mind what 
to do ; but it was clear I must keep them quiet till something shaped. 

"They were all drinking brandy when Hilton's wife entered the room. Her 
face was, mon dieu ! so innocent, so child-like ! She stared at the men and then 
I told them she was deaf and dumb, and I told her why they had come. \"oila, 
it was beautiful ! She shook her head so innocently, and then told them like a 
child that they were wicked to chase a girl. I could have kissed her feet. Ton- 
nere, how she fooled them ! She said, would they not search the house ? She 
said all through me, on her fingers and by signs. And I told them at once. But 
she told me something else, that the girl had slipped out as the last man came in, 
had mounted the chestnut and would wait for me by the spring, a quarter of a 
mile away. There was the danger that some one of the men knew the finger- 
language, so she told me this thing in signs mixed up with other sentences. 

"Good ! There was now but one thing to do — for me to get away. So I 
said, laughing, to one of the men : 'Come, and we will look after the horses and 
the others can search the place with Hilton.' So we went out to where the horses 
were tied to the railing and led them away to the corral. 

"Of course you will understand how I did it. I clapped a hand on his mouth, 
put a pistol at his head, gagged and tied him. Then I got my Tophet and away 
I went to the spring. The girl was waiting. There were few words. I gripped 
her hand, gave her another pistol, and then we got away on a fine moonlit trail. 
We had not gone a mile when I heard a faint yell far behind. My game had been 
found out. There was nothing to do but to ride for it now and to fight if nec- 
essary. But fighting was not good, for I might be killed and then the girl would 
be caught just the same. We rode on — such a ride — the horses neck and neck, 
their feet pounding the prairie like piston rods, rawbone to rawbone, ding-dong 
gait. I knew they were after us, though I saw them but once on the crest of a 
divide, about three miles behind. Hour after hour like that, with ten minutes' 



GILBERT PARKER ui 

rest now and then at a spring, or to stretch our legs. We hardly spoke to each 
other ; but God of Love ! my heart was warm to this girl who had ridden one 
hundred and x'ifty miles in twenty-four hours. 

******* 

"Dawn was just breaking oozy and gray at the swell of the prairie, over the 
Jumping Sand Hills. They lay quiet and shining in the green-brown plain, but 
I knew that beneath there was a churn which could set those swells of sand in 
motion and make deadly sport of an army. Who could tell what it is ? A flood 
under the surface, a tidal river — what? No man knows. But they are sea mon- 
sters on the land. Every morning at sunrise they begin to eddy and roll, and no 
man ever saw a stranger sight. Bien, I looked back. There were four horse- 
men coming on, about three miles away. What was there to do ? The girl and 
myself on my tired horse were too much. They saw also and hurried on. There 
came to me a great idea. I must reach and cross the Jumping Sand Hills be- 
fore sunrise. It was all a deadly chance. 

"When we got to the edge of the sand they were almost a mile behind, I 
was all sick to my teeth as my poor Tophet stepped into the sand. God, how I 
watched the dawn ! Slow, slow, we toiled over that velvet powder. As we 
reached the further side I felt that it was beginning to move. The sun was show- 
ing like the lid of an eye along the plain. I looked back. All four horsemen 
were in the sand, plunging on toward us. By the time we touched the brown- 
green prairie on the further side the sand was rolling behind us. The girl had 
not looked back. She seemed too dazed. I jumped from the horse and told her 
that she must push on alone to the fort ; that Tophet could not carry both ; that 
I should be in no danger. She looked at me, I cannot tell how, then stooped 
and kissed me between the eyes. I have never forgotten. I struck Tophet, and 
she was gone to her happiness, for she reached the fort and her lover's arms. 

"But I stood looking back upon the Jumping Sand Hills. So, was there 
ever a sight like that — those hills gone like a smelting floor, the sunrise spotting 
it with rose and yellow, and three horses and their riders fighting what cannot be 
fought ? What could I do ? They would have got the girl if I had not led them 
across, and they would have killed me if they could. Only one cried out, and 
then but once, in a long shriek. But, after, all three were quiet as they fought, 
until they were gone where no man could see, where none cries out so we can 
hear." 

There was a long pause, painful to bear. The trader sat with eyes fixed 
humbly as a dog's on Pierre. At last Macavoy said: "She kissed ye, Pierre — 
aw, yis, she did that ! Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see her now, Pierre ?" 

But Pierre, though looking at him, made no answer. 



12 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



THE FLYING MARCH 

BY W. L ALDEN 

(Born at Williamstowu, Mass., October 9, 1S37) 

fNE day Professor Van Wagener and I were walking together on our way 
to the post-office, when we met a regiment of infantry. Of course we 
stopped to look at them, for I don't suppose there is a man living who 
doesn't like to look at soldiers. The professor looked at the men in 
the critical sort of way that everybody puts on in such circumstances, 
and presently he said : 

"Colonel, isn't it your opinion that a regiment that could march two hun- 
dred miles a day would be much more efficient than one that could only march 
twenty miles?" 

''All other things being equal, it certainly would," I replied; "but the sollier 
who can march a hundred miles a day, not to speak of two hundred, isn't born 

yet/' 

"I think you are mistaken, Colonel!" said he. "It's my idea that by the use 
of proper means it can be made just as easy to march at the rate of twenty miles 
an hour as it is now to march at the rate of four miles an hour." 

"There you are again !" said I. "You're thinking of some invention that is 
going to revolutionize the art of warfare ! My dear professor ! You've been 
revolutionizing warfare ever since I knew you, but I haven't noticed that it has 
been revolutionized to any great extent." 

Well, nothing more was said on the subject at that time, but about a rronth 
later \'an Wagener came over to my house one morning with a big basketful of 
machinery and chemicals on his arm and asked me to lend him the use of my 
backyard for an hour or two, while he revolutionized the art of warfare. Of 
course, I told him he icould do anything in my backyard that he might want to 
do, provided he didn't do it with dynamite or any other explosive, and he assured 
me that this time there was nothing in the slightest degree dangerous in what he 
meant to do. 

"I will explain the whole matter to you," he said, sitting down on a bench 
in my backyard, and wiping his forehead with a cloth stained with chemicals, for 
the basket was heavy, and the day was hot. "You remember we were speaking 
the other day about the marching abilities of infantry regiments. Now, let me 
ask vou what it is that makes it hard for a soldier to march, or for any man to 



W. L. ALDEN 113 

walk. Isn't it the force of gravitation, which holds him down to the ground, and 
prevents him from lifting his foot except by a muscular effort?" 

"I suppose it is," said I. 

"Very good," said Van Wagener. "Now if you could reduce the force of 
gravitation one-half, or, say, two-thirds, it would be just that much easier for a 
man to walk than it is in existing circumstances, wouldn't it?" 

"I admit it," said I. For it was always necessary to admit Van Wagener's 
premises, provided you wanted to carry on a conversation with him. 

"You are really an intelligent man. Colonel!" said he, "although at times 
you are rather slow to perceive the merits of any valuable invention. As I was 
saying, the thing to do if you want to make walking or marching easier, is to 
reduce the force of gravitation. 

"Please to look at my shirt for a moment," continued the professor. "As 
you see, it is made of very thin cloth coated with a coating of india rubber. Also, 
you will perceive, that it is made of two thicknesses of rubber cloth, joined to- 
gether at the neck and the waist, and that just where the collar button would 
ordinarily come at the back of my neck, is a small valve. Now this shirt will 
hold just as many cubic feet of hydrogen gas as would be sufficient to lift a 
man of my weight, together with eighty pounds of arms and accoutrements." 

"^rhen you mean a soldier shall fiy instead of march?" I said. 

"Not at all," said Van Wagener. "I simply propose to make him so light 
that he will be able to take steps thirty or forty feet long, and to jump over hedges 
and streams with perfect ease." 

I wanted to remind the professor of a jumping machine that he had once in- 
vented, and that had nearly killed him when he tried to use it, but I kept quiet. 

"Now," said my friend, taking ofif his coat and waistcoat, and wiping away 
the perspiration that was streaming down his face, "I will proceed to give you a 
practical illustration of the value of my invention. This is the first time I have 
actually experimented with it, but I have absolute confidence in its practica- 
1/iIity." 

With that Van Wagener opened his basket, and took out a sort of tin knap- 
sack with a rubber tube attached to it. 

"This," said he, "is the generator. I fasten this on my back, and you will 
understand that if I were a soldier I should carry it outside my knapsack. I 
connect this tube with the shirt-valve, and turn this little stop-cock. The mo- 
ment the stop-cock is turned the gas begins to generate and flows through the 
tube into the shirt. When I have gas enough to reduce my weight one-half, I 
shut ofT the supply, and march on my way, taking steps twenty feet long, and 
feeling almost as light as a bird. But first, I must fasten these leaden soles to 
my boots, so that I can be sure of preserving an upright attitude. You see, I 



114 T'EST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

sliall be in just the same condition as a diver, the weight of whose body is reduced 
as he sinks in the water. He is obHged to wear shoes weighted with lead, for 
without them he might go down head first." 

\'an W'agener carefully tied his lead soles to his feet, and then he buckled 
the generator on his back, and tried to turn the stop-cock of which he had spoken. 
He had so much difficulty in finding it that he asked me to turn it for him, which, 
of course, I did. 

Presently the gas began to hiss as it was generated, and the professor began 
to swell as his shirt gradually filled. When it was apparently about half full he 
asked me to turn ofif the gas, and then he started to walk across my back yard. 
There is no denying that the gas got in its work fairly well. \'an Wagencr went 
across that yard taking steps that were about ten feet long and bounding gently 
into the air every time his feet touched the ground. Still, his walk was to all 
appearance the drunkenest walk that has ever been seen since the days when 
Noah made his great invention of drunkenness. The professor's body was 
swinging forwards and backwards and sidewa}-s, and was mostly at an angle of. 
say, fifty degrees with the ground. It was clear that if it hadn't been for the lead 
soles fastened to his boots he would have done a good deal of walking on his 
head. I followed pretty close after him, and he evidently enjoyed himself im- 
mensely, for he kept calling out to me to notice how light he was, and demanded 
to know whether he hadn't knocked gravitation endways with his gas machine. 
Even when he came down with both feet in a briar bush, and stuck there until I 
pulled him out by main force, leaving a large proportion of his trousers in the 
bush, he never lost his spirits. He had walked twice round the yard when a lit- 
tle accident happened which interrupted his experiment. He came down with 
both feet on my cat's tail. Now Tommie was one of the best-tempered cats I 
ever knew, that is to say so long as you treated him with proper respect. 

Being mad all over, Tommie frees liis mind with a few remarks, and then 
he makes a jump for the professor's shoulder, where he stopped long enough to 
give him a couple of good ones on the cheek that drew the blood, and then he 
went over the fence in search of a quiet spot where he could make repairs to his 
tail. I came up to the professor to sympathize with him while he was wiping the 
blood from his face, but he sang out to me not to bring my cigar anywhere near 
him, for the gas was leaking, and an explosion might be brought about. I could 
see that his size was rapidly growing less, and in a little while the gas had all es- 
caped through half-a-dozen holes that the cat's claws had made in the shirt, and 
the professor was able to wrdk like an ordinary Christian. 

"I can't do anything more," said V^an Wagencr, "until I have mended the 
leaks in my shirt. You'll admit, I think, that my experiment was a great suc- 
cess?" 



W. L. ALDEN IT5 

"I'll admit," said I, "that any army in the world would run away from an 
enemy approaching in the same style as you circulated round my yard." 

"Wait till T have had a little more experience," said the professor. "To- 
morrow, at about this hour, I will come back here with my shirt repaired, and 
everything ready for a final and conclusive experiment. I hope you will have the 
goodness to lock up that abominable cat, for I can't promise to succeed in my ex- 
periment if that beast is on hand." 

"All right," said I, "the cat shall be locked up. But I ask you what will 
happen when your army marches across country with their shirts inflated with 
gas ? Cats are awfully common, and if the army treads on a cat's tail there'll be 
a panic that will be worse than a defeat." 

Van Wagener didn't condescend to answer me, but he marched out of my 
yard with his basket on his arm, and a glow of triumph in his face, which struck 
me as being a little previous, in view of all the facts. 

Well, the next day the professor turned up at the same hour in the very best 
of spirits. 

This time he had extra heavy lead weights to his feet, and when everything 
was ready, I turned on the supply of gas for him, until he judged that his weight 
had been reduced to about one-third of what it ordinarily was. Then he gave 
me the word to turn off the gas, and he started to walk across the yard. His walk 
was only a little drunker in appearance than it had been the day before, but he 
certainly did get over the ground at a tremendous rate. Every time his feet 
touched the earth he bounded about ten feet into the air. and came down again 
a good thirty feet from where he had started. He went the length of the yard, 
which was fully five hundred feet, in no time at all, and as he passed me on the 
way back, he was so excited that he tried to clap his feet together, and to crow 
like a rooster. I don't say this was quite worthy of a respectable scientific man, 
l)ut allowances must be made for an inventor who finds that his invention works. 
P)Ut the professor made the biggest mistake in his life when he tried to clap his 
feet together. In so doing, one of his lead soles, which had been tied on by the 
professor himself, with a sort of knot that was of no manner of use, dropped off, 
and Van Wagener went up into the air like a shot. I saw him trying to reach 
the stop-cock that shuts off the gas from his shirt, but he could not find it, and 
it would have done him no good if he had found it. What that shirt needed was 
some sort of safety valve for letting the gas escape in case of accident, but Van 
Wagener had omitted to furnish it with any such valve. Without his lead sole 
he was considerably lighter than the atmosphere, and consequently there was 
nothing to prevent him from going up. There was a gentle breeze from the 
southward, and as Van Wagener rose slowly and seemed to be drifting towards 
a thickly-built part of the town I was in hopes that he would be able to catch 



ii6 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

hold of some building and hold on till some one could come to his aid. He 
never said a word as he sailed upwards, but I'm ready to bet that he would have 
given a good deal if the cat could have jumped on him from the roof of the house 
and punctured his shirt. I sang out to him to keep cool, which is the easiest 
thing to say to a man who is in difficulties, but he simply smiled a resigned sort 
of smile, and disappeared behind the house. 

I ran out of the front door and chased the professor, keeping my eye on him 
just as a sailor keeps his eye on a man who falls overboard, though there wasn't 
any chance of sending a life boat, or, for that matter, a life balloon, after him. 
He drifted along at an elevation of perhaps fifty feet, and presently I saw he was 
heading directly for the Presbyterian church. The church itself was only about 
thirty feet high from the ground to the roof, but it had a steeple that was a good 
hundred feet in height, though it didn't look it. Van Wagener drifted along 
amid the general enthusiasm of the inhabitants, who all rushed out-of-doors to 
see him, and imagined that he had contrived some new way of navigating the 
air, and was making a big success of it. 

By rare good luck, he happened to hit the very top of the Presbyterian 
steeple, and he caught hold of it and held on for all he was worth. There wasn't 
much to hold on to, except the lightning-rod, for, of course, there wasn't any 
cross there, and in the place where a cross ought to have been there was a big 
gilt pineapple, which was too big- to put one's arms round. 

By the time I got alongside of the church there were about two thousand 
people — men, women and children — there, waiting to see the professor fall, and 
be smashed to pieces by the time he should strike the ground. They were all in 
the best of spirits, as folks generally are when they are admitted free to some 
attractive show. Deacon White was the only exception ; he disapproved strong- 
ly of Van Wagener's conduct, and said that it was little better than sacrilege. 
Of course I knew that the professor was in no danger of falling down. What 
he wanted to do was to avoid falling up, whenever it should become necessary 
for him to let go his hold. I saw that the thing to do was to get a rope to him 
as soon as possible, calculating that he would have sense enough to know how to 
use it. The difficulty was how to get the rope to him, for the steeple was per- 
fectly smooth on the outside, so that nobody could possibly climb it, and there 
was no ladder in the town that would reach half=way up to the pineapple. 
Pretty soon I saw my way. I sent a man to get two hundred feet of stout line, 
and then I found a boy who was flying a kite, and bought out his whole stock 
for fifty cents. I used to be a middling good kite flyer when I was a boy, and it 
didn't take me very long to manoeuvre that kite so that the string fell across 
Van Wagener's shoulder, and I saw him seize it with one hand. Then I bent 
the two hundred feet of line to the kitestring, and shook it as a signal to the 



W. L. ALDEN 117 

professor to haul away. He did so, and in a little while he had one end of the 
line in his possession, and he cast the kite adrift, string and all. 

Any man who wasn't a scientific person would have known that I expected 
Van Wagener to tie the line to his ankles, and let me pull him gently down. 
But the professor never thought of that. He tied the line fast to the lightning- 
rod, and started to slide down it. Naturally, his inflated shirt made that im- 
possible. We could see him hanging on to the line with both hands, and with 
his body swinging out at right angles, but in spite of all he could do he couldn't 
manage to climb down the line a single foot. The public got more excited than 
ever, and the betting on the professor's ultimate fate was lively. But after a 
time he came to the conclusion that he had made a mistake, and I was never 
more relieved in my life than when I saw him climb back to his perch on the 
pineapple and begin to unfasten the line. He kept me on the anxious seat for 
the next ten minutes while he waited to rest, and then I was delighted to see 
him make the line fast to both his ankles. 

It was a beautiful spectacle, the way in which the professor came down as I 
hauled in on the line. He kept perfectly erect, but lie also kept slowly revolving 
on his axis, as you might say. His arms were stretched out at right angles to 
his body in order to steady himself a little, and the general efifect of him was that 
of an angel without wings in the act of blessing the public. When he reached 
the ground, I got a good hold of him and slit his inflated shirt with my penknife. 
Then, when the gas had all escaped, I untied his legs, and, giving him my arm, 
for he was more or less weak with the excitement of his adventure, I took him 
home, followed by a cheering and enthusiastic crowd composed of all the leading 
citizens of the place, without distinction of creed or politics. 

For my part, I consider that Van Wagener's invention was a success, but, 
curiously enough, he never made any further experiments with it. You see, he 
had got a pretty big scare when he was drifting over the town and clinging to 
the Presbyterian steeple, and the result was that he weakened, as you might say, 
on his invention. Now that Van Wagener is dead, it is open to any one to take 
up his invention and make a practical success of it. 



ii8 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

A STORY FOR A CHILD 

BY BAYARD TAYLOR 

I. 
Little one, come to my knee ! 

Hark how the rain is pouring 
Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, 

And the wind in the woods a-roaring ! 

II. 
Hush, my darling, and listen, 

Then pay for the story with kisses : 
Father was lost in the pitch-black night, 

In just such a storm as this is ! 

III. 
■~ High up on the lonely mountains. 

Where the wild men watched and waited ; 
Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, 
And I on my path belated. 

IV. 
The rain and the night together 

Came down, and the wind came after, 
Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, 

And snapping many a rafter. 

V. 
I crept along in the darkness. 

Stunned and bruised and blinded — 
Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs. 

And a sheltering rock behind it. 

VI. 
There, from the blowing and raining 

Crouching, I sought to hide me : 
Something rustled, two green eyes shone, 

And a wolf lay down beside me. 

Jieprodviced by kind permission of Little, Brown & Co. of Boston, 



BAYARD TAYLOR 

VII. 
Little one, be not frightened ; 

I and the wolf together, 
Side by side, through the long, long night, 

Hid from the awful weather. 

MIL 
His wet fur pressed against me ; 

Each of us warmed the other: 
Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, 

That beast and man was brother. 

IX. 

And when the falling forest 
No longer crashed in warning, 

Each of us went from our hiding-place 
Forth in the wild, wet morning. 



119 



Darling, kiss me payment ! 

Hark how the wind is roaring : 
Father's house is a better place 

When the stormy rain is pouring! 




I20 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

SPELLING DOWN THE MASTER 

FROM "THE HOOSIER SCHOOIv-MASTER " 

BY EDWARD EGGLESTON 

(Born at Vevay, Ind., December lo, 1S37) 

" /^l^ 'LOW," said Mrs. Means, as she stuffed the tobacco into her cob pipe 
P,; after supper on that eventful Wednesday evening: "I 'low they'll 
i , • app'int the Squire to gin out the words to-night. They mos' always do, 
1^^ you see, kase he's the peartest olc man in this deestrick ; and I 'low 
-t<h some of the young fellers would have to git up and dust ef they 
would keep up to him. And he uses sech remarkable smart words. 
He speaks so polite, too. But laws ! don't I remember when he was poarer 
nor Job's turkey ? Twenty year ago, when he come to these 'ere diggin's, 
that air Squire Hawkins was a poar Yankee school-master, that said 'pail' instead 
of bucket, and that called a cow a 'caow,' and that couldn't tell to save his gizzard 
what we meant by lozv and by right smart. But he's larnt our ways now, an' he's 
jest as civilized as the rest of us. You wouldn't know he'd ever been a Yankee. 
He didn't stay poar long. Not he. He jest married a right rich girl ! He ! 
He !" And the old woman grinned at Ralph, and then at Mirandy, and then at 
the rest, until Ralph shuddered. Nothing was so frightful to him as to be fawned 
on by this grinning ogre, whose fewjonesome, blackish teeth seemed ready to 
devour him. "He didn't stay poar, you bet a hoss !" and with this the coal was 
deposited on the pipe and the lips began tc crack like parchment as each puff 
of smoke escaped. "He married rich, you see," and here another significant look 
at the young master and another fond look at Mirandy as she puffed away re- 
flectively. "His wife hadn't no book-larnin'. She'd been through the spellin' 
book wunst and had got as fur as 'asperity' on it a second time. But she couldn't 
read a word when she was married and never could. She warn't overly smart. 
She hadn't hardly got the sense the law allows. But schools was skase in them 
air days, and besides, book-larnin' don't do no good to a woman. Makes her 
stuck up. I never knowed but one gal in my life as had ciphered into fractions 
and she was so dog-on stuck up that she turned up her nose one night at a apple- 
ix^elin' bekase I tuck a sheet off the bed to splice out the tal)lc-cloth, which was 
ruther short." 

Every family furnished a candle. There were yellow dips and white dips, 
burning, smoking and llaring. There was laughing and talking and giggling 



EDWARD EGGLESTON 121 

and simpering and ogling and flirting and courting. What a full-dress party 
is to Fifth Avenue, a spelling-school is to Hoopole County. It is an occasion 
which is metaphorically inscribed with this legend: "Choose your partners." 
Spelling is only a blind in Hoopole County, as is dancing on Fifth Avenue. 
But as there are some in society who love dancing for its own sake, so in Flat 
Creek district there were those who loved spelling for its own sake, and who, 
smelling the battle from afar, had come to try their skill in this tournament, hoping 
to freshen the laurels they had won in their school-days. 

"I 'low," said Mr. Means, speaking as the principal school trustee, "I 'low 
our friend the Square is jest the man to boss this 'ere consarn to-night. Ef 
nobody objects I'll app'int him. Come, Square, don't be bashful. Walk up to 
the trough, fodder or no fodder, as the man said to his donkey." 

There was a general giggle at this, and many of the young swains took occa- 
sion to nudge the girls alongside them, ostensibly for the purpose of making 
them see the joke, but really for the pure pleasure of nudging. The Greeks 
figured Cupid as naked, probably because he wears so many disguises that they 
could not select a costume for him. 

The Squire came to the front. Ralph made an inventory of the agglomera- 
tion which bore the name of Squire Hawkins, as follows : 

1. A swallow-tail coat of indefinite age, worn only on state occasions, when 
its owner was called to figure in his public capacity. Either the Squire had 
grown too large or the coat too small. 

2. A pair of black gloves, the most phenomenal, abnormal, and unex- 
pected apparition conceivable in Flat Creek district, where the preachers wore 
no coats in the Summer, and where a black glove was never seen except on the 
hands of the Squire. 

3. A wig of that dirty, waxen color so common to wigs. This one showed 
a continual inclination to slip ofif the owner's smooth, bald pate, and the Squire 
had frequently to adjust it. As his hair had been red, the wig did not accord 
with his face, and the hair ungrayed was doubly discordant with a countenance 
shriveled by age. 

4. A semicircular row of whiskers hedging the edge of the jaw and chin. 
These were dyed a frightful dead-black, such a color as belonged to no natural 
hair or beard that ever existed. At the roots there was a quarter of an inch of 
white, giving the whiskers the appearance of having been stuck on. 

5. A pair of spectacles "with tortoise-shell rim." Wont to slip off. 

6. A glass eye, purchased of a pedlar, and differing in color from its 
natural mate, perpetually getting out of focus by turning in or out. 

7. A set of false teeth, badly fitted, and given to bobbing up and down. 

8. The Squire proper, to whom these patches were loosely attached. 



122 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

It is an old story that a boy wrote home to his father begging him to come 
West, because "mighty mean men get into office out here." But Ralph concluded 
that some Yankees had taught school in Hoopole County who would not have 
held a high place in the educational institutions of Massachusetts. Hawkins had 
some New England idioms, but they were well overlaid by a Western pronun- 
ciation. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, shoving up his spectacles, and sucking 
his lips over his white teeth to keep them in place, "ladies and gentlemen, young 
men and maidens, raley I'm obleeged to Mr. Means fer this honor," and the 
Squire took both hands and turned the top of his head round half an inch. Then 
he adjusted his spectacles. Whether he was obliged to Mr. Means for the honor 
of being compared to a donkey was not clear. "I feel in the inmost compart- 
ments of my animal spirits a most happifying sense of the success and futility 
of all my endeavors to sarve the people of Flat Creek deestrick, and the people 
of Tomkins township, in my weak way and manner." This burst of eloquence 
was delivered with a constrained air and an apparent sense of a danger that he, 
Squire Hawkins, might fall to pieces in his weak way and manner, and of the 
success and futility of all attempts at reconstruction. For by this time the 
ghastly pupil of the left eye, which was black, was looking away round to the 
left, while the little blue one on the right twinkled cheerfully toward the front. 
The front teeth would drop down so that the Squire's mouth was kept nearly 
closed, and his words whistled through. 

"I feel as if I could be grandiloquent on this interesting occasion" — twist- 
ing his scalp round — "but raley I must forego any such exertions. It is spelling 
you want. Spelling is the corner-stone, the grand, underlying subterfuge of a 
good eddication. I put the spellin'-book prepared by the great Daniel Web- 
ster alongside the Bible. I do, raley. I think I may put it ahead of the Bible ; 
for if it wurn't fer spellin'-books and sich occasions as these, where would the 
Bible be ? I should like to know. The man who got up, who compounded this 
work of inextricable valoo, was a benufactor to the whole human race or any 
other." Here the spectacles fell ofif. The Squire replaced them in some con- 
fusion, gave the top of his head another twist, and felt of his glass eye, while poor 
Shocky stared in wonder, and Betsey Short rolled from side to side in the efifort 
to suppress her giggle. Mrs. Means and the other old ladies looked the applause 
they could not speak. 

"I app'int Larkin Lanham and Jeems Buchanan fer captings," said the 
Squire. And the two young men thus named took a stick and tossed it from 
hand to hand to decide which should have the "first choice." One tossed the 
stick to the other, who held it fast just where he happened to catch it. Then the 
first placed his hand above the second, and so on the hands were alternately 



EDWARD EGGLESTON 123 

changed to the top. The one who held the stick last without room for the other 
to take hold had gained the lot. This was tried three times. As Larkin held 
the stick twice out of three times, he had the choice. He hesitated a moment. 
Everybody looked toward tall Jim Phillips. But Larkin was fond of a venture 
on unknown seas, and so he said, "I take the master," while a buzz of surprise 
ran round the room, and the captain of the other side, as if afraid his opponent 
v.'ould withdraw his choice, retorted quickly, and with a little smack of exultation 
and defiance in his voice, "And / take Jeems Phillips." 

And soon all present, except a few of the old folks, found themselves ranged 
in opposing hosts, the poor spellers lagging in, with what grace they could, at 
the foot of the two divisions. The Squire opened his spelling-book and began 
to give out the words to the two captains, who stood up and spelled against 
each other. It was not long until Larkin spelled "really" with one /, and had to 
sit down in confusion, while a murmur of satisfaction ran through the ranks of 
the opposing forces. His own side bit their lips. The slender figure of the 
young teacher took the place of the fallen leader, and the excitement made 
the house very quiet. Ralph dreaded the loss of prestige he would suffer if he 
should be easily spelled dowm. And at the moment of rising he saw in the 
darkest corner the figure of a well-dressed young man sitting in the shadow. 
Why should his evil genius haunt him? But by a strong effort he turned his 
attention away from Dr. Small, and listened carefully to the words which the 
Squire did not pronounce very distinctly, spelling them with extreme deliberation. 
This gave him an air of hesitation which disappointed those on his own side. 
They wanted him to spell with a dashing assurance. But he did not begin a 
word until he had mentally felt his way through it. After ten minutes of spelling 
hard words, Jeems Buchanan, the captain on the other side, spelled "atrocious" 
with an .? instead of a c, and subsided, his first choice, Jeems Phillips, coming up 
against the teacher. This brought the excitement to fever-heat. For though 
Ralph was chosen first, it was entirely on trust, and most of the company were 
disappointed. The champion who now stood up against the school-master was 
a famous speller. 

Jim Phillips was a tall, lank, stoop-shouldered fellow who had never dis- 
tinguished himself in any other pursuit than spelling. Except in this one art 
of spelling he was of no account. He could not catch well or bat well in ball. 
He could not throw well enough to make his mark in that famous Western game 
of bullpen. He did not succeed well in any study but that of Webster's Ele- 
mentary. But in that he was — to use the usual Flat Creek locution — in that 
he was a "boss." This genius for spelling is in some people a sixth sense, a 
matter of intuition. Some spellers are born, and not made, and their facility 
reminds one of the mathematical prodigies that crop out every now and then 



124 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

to bewilder the world. Bud Means, foreseeing that Ralph would be pitted 
against Jim Phillips, had warned his friend that Jim could "spell like thunder and 
lightning," and that it "took a powerful smart speller" to beat him, for he knew 
"a heap of spelling-book." To have "spelled down the master" is next thing 
to having whipped the biggest bully in Hoopole County, and Jim had "spelled 
down" the last three masters. He divided the hero-worship of the district with 
Bud Means. 

For half an hour the Squire gave out hard words. What a blessed thing 
our crooked orthography is ! Without it there could be no spelling-schools. 
As Ralph discovered his opponent's mettle he became more and more cautious. 
He was now satisfied that Jim would eventually beat him. The fellow evidently 
knew more about the spelling-book than old Noah Webster himself. As he 
stood there, with his dull face and long, sharp nose, his hands behind his back 
and his voice spelling infallibly, it seemed to Hartsook that his superiority must 
lie in his nose. Ralph's cautiousness answered a double purpose ; it enabled him 
to tread surely, and it was mistaken by Jim for weakness. Phillips was now- 
confident that he should carry ofif the scalp of the fourth school-master before 
the evening was over. He spelled eagerly, confidently, brilliantly. Stoop- 
shouldered as he was, he began to straighten up. In the minds of all the com- 
pany the odds were in his favor. He saw this, and became ambitious to distin- 
guish himself by spelling without giving the matter any thought. 

"Theodolite," said the Squire. 

"T-h-e, the, o-d, od, theod ; o, theodo ; 1-y-t-e, theodolite," spelled the cham- 
pion. 

"Nex'," said the Squire, nearly losing his teeth in his excitement. Ralph 
spelled the word slowly and correctly, and the conquered champion sat down in 
confusion. The excitement was so great for some minutes that the spelling was 
suspended. Everybody in the house had shown sympathy with one or the 
other of the combatants, except the silent shadow in the corner. It had not 
moved during the contest, and did not show any interest now in the result. 

"Gewhilliky crickets! Thunder and lightning! Licked him all to smash I" 
said Bud, rubbing his hands on his knees. "That beats my time all holler!" 

And Betsey Short giggled until her tuck-comb fell out, though she was on 
the defeated side. 

Shocky got up and danced with pleasure. 

But one suffocating look from the aqueous eyes of Mirandy destroyed the 
last spark of Ralph's pleasure in his triumph, and sent that awful below-zero 
feeling all through him. 

"He's powerful smart, is the master," said old Jack to Mr. Pete Jones. 



EDWARD EGGLESTON 125 

"He'll beat the whole kit and tuck e^f 'em afore he's through. I know'd he was 
smart. That's the reason I tuck him," proceeded Mr. Means. 

"Yaas, but he don't lick enough. Not nigh," answered Pete Jones. "No 
lickin', no larnin', says I." 

It was now not so hard. The other spellers on the opposite side went down 
quickly under the hard words which the Squire gave out. The master had 
mowed down all but a few, his opponents had given up the battle, and all had 
lost their keen interest in a contest to which there could be but one conclusion, 
for there were only the poor spellers left. But Ralph Hartsook ran against a 
stump where he was least expecting it. It was the Squire's custom, when one 
of the smaller scholars or poorer spellers rose to spell against the master, to 
give out eight or ten easy words, that they might have some breathing-spell 
before being slaughtered, and then to give a poser or two which soon settled 
them. He let them run a little, as a cat does a doomed mouse. There was now 
but one person left on the opposite side, and, as she rose in her blue calico dress, 
Ralph recognized Hannah, the bound girl at old Jack Means'. She had not at- 
tended school in the district and had never spelled in spelling-school before, 
and she was chosen last as an uncertain quantity. The Squire began with easy 
words of two syllables, from that page of Webster so well known to all who ever 
thumbed it as "baker," from the word that stands at the top of the page. She 
spelled these words in an absent and uninterested manner. As everybody knew 
that she would have to go down as soon as this preliminary skirmishing was 
over, everybody began to get ready to go home, and already there was the buzz 
of preparation. Young men were timidly asking girls if "they could see them 
safe home," which was the approved formula, and were trembling in mortal fear 
of "the mitten." Presently the Squire, thinking it time to close the contest, 
pulled his scalp forward, adjusted his glass eye, which had been examining his 
nose long enough, and turned over the leaves of the book to the great words at 
the place known to spellers as "incomprehensibility," and began to give out those 
"words of eight syllables with the accent on the sixth." Listless scholars now 
turned round, and ceased to whisper, in order to be in at the master's final tri- 
umph. But to their surprise, "old Miss Means's white nigger," as some of them 
called her in allusion to her slavish life, spelled these great words with as perfect 
ease as the master. Still not doubting the result, the Squire turned from place 
to place and selected all the hard words he could find. The school became 
utterly quiet, the excitement was too great for the ordinary buzz. Would 
"Means's- Hanner" beat the master — beat the master that had laid out Jim Phil- 
lips? Everybody's sympathy was now turned to Hannah. Ralph noticed that 
even Shocky had deserted him, and that his face grew brilliant every time Hannah 
spelled a word. In fact, Ralph deserted himself. As he saw the fine, timid 



126 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

face of the girl so long oppressed flush and shine with interest; as he looked at 
the rather low but broad and intelligent brow and the fresh, white complexion, 
and saw the rich, womanly nature coming to the surface under the influence of 
applause and sympathy, he did not want to beat. If he had not felt that a 
victory given would insult her, he would have missed intentionally. The bull- 
dog, the stern, relentless setting of the will had gone, he knew not whither. 
And there had come in its place, as he looked in that face, a something which he 
did not understand. You did not, gentle reader, the first time it came to you. 

The Squire was puzzled. He had given out all the hard words in the book. 
He again pulled the top of his head forward. Then wiped his spectacles and put 
them on. Then out of the depths of his pocket he fished up a list of words just 
coming into use in those days — words not in the spelling-book. He regarded 
the paper attentively with his blue right eye. His black left eye meanwhile fixed 
itself in such a stare on Mirandy Means that she shuddered and hid her eyes in 
her red silk handkerchief. 

"Daguerreotype," sniffed the Squire. It was Ralph's turn. 

"D-a-u, dau " 

"Next." 

And Hannah spelled it right. 

Such a buzz followed that Betsey Short's giggle could not be heard, but 
Shocky shouted : "Hanner beat ! My Hanner spelled down the master !" And 
Ralph went over and congratulated her. 

And Dr. Small sat perfectly still in the corner. 

And then the Squire called them to order, and said : "As our friend Hanner 
Thompson is the only one left on her side, she will have to spell against nearly all 
on t'other side. I shall therefore take the liberty of procrastinating the com- 
pletion of this interesting and exacting contest until to-morrow evening. I hope 
our friend Hanner may again carry ofif the cypress crown of glory. There is 
nothing better for us than healthful and kindly simulation." 

Dr. Smalh who knew the road to practice, escorted Mirandy, and Bud went 
home with something else. The others of the Means family hurried on, while 
Hannah, the champion, stayed behind a minute to speak to Shocky. Perhaps it 
was because Ralph saw that Hannah must go alone that he suddenly remembered 
having left something which was of no consequence, and resolved to go round by 
Mr. INIeans's and get it. 



/cTwJ?^ 



f^ Q„d./<^ , 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 127 



THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING 

BEING A TALE REPRODUCED IN FAC hIMILE FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT 

BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT 

(Born at South Berwick, Me., Sept. 3, 1849) 

h^uo aUL 'yy^Ha, He-ii (jjf^^ 4-^C^ C4-Ji^^ (f"^--- 

l^U^Ci. tX^/ , R&fi^ <^e^>^XD kctf, "K^ lyJUa t»>«-^«_^X<»y^e.r^^ 
SiQjU<c^ '*^ '^^ Aol**- Cjeyyysx A^u^ t^ (\eL4^ , ^i&j^ 




M^ 



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SARAH ORNE JEWETT 



128 



SARAH ORNE JEWETT 129 

ClOn^u^i C^<<^ <u!W-^^A^tX IcUaJ^^ OaaJ^ fizz A^ViL<. ICZ^ 

"S"-^^ "^vp CU> CfZt<j <^r<M^uitwX *^ "let f%mmf[Cwtm{^ 

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130 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



11 

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SARAH ORNE JEWETT 131 



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132 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



SARAH ORNE JEWETT 133 



Ud x^^ (^ ' 'c^^ f^' ^ f:^^^ M^?fe> ^ 

^^SxfMJwtt/. Ax_^'»>tx-^ ^V^u ^♦e^^ ^^Ji^<^ -/ ^^c^laJ j /tt^f^ 
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134 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

in 



SARAH ORNE JEWETT 135 

J^ d/r^i-^ f^^^^^~^^ ^"^^^^^^^^ -^ .j^it:^^:^ 

^^ ^.-zXTo /T^^^>^^ Avf rr^Ou^f^^^^^^^^^ 

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136 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Ue^l «- ^( Ciuvu ^t^^c^tw? At^</^ Ai^^>tu4^ Be^ 
U(u^ [^^ uc^ ^ y^^*^ *^ fUfyt^Ctu jx^^kf^xAJL 

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SARAH ORNE JEWETT 
Lfh i Biry^^f\^ ^l^a^^ y^MMUAUx^ Pseu^ 



137 



138 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

KJL^ yl^iAA^ T^-ifj; >^^i^ ^ «<7h«^L<t^ Arv. (hvf- 

l^ tfU (UuUAf «>t^ liJ^ ^^UXaJ: fiC^^AjL^ -^^^tc^ 
(h^ f^^-i^ ^^ ^Hh^^ A<?^/i., ^u^P "^t^ /^t/— 



SARAH ORNE JEWETT 139 



?lf7 ^ y AM^xJ^jX (i~^/hMU. yyvu^frtf . ^C kliUf-G^ 




EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 



[40 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 141 

THE OLD ADMIRAL 

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 

Gone at last, 

That brave old hero of the past! 

His spirit has a second birth, 

An unknown, grander life ; 
All of him that was earth 

Lies mute and cold. 

Like a wrinkled sheath and old 
Thrown ofif forever from the shinnnering blade 
That has good entrance made 

Upon some distant, glorious strife. 

From another generation, 

A simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came ; 
The morn and noontide of the nation 

Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame — 

Oh, not outlived his fame ! 
The dauntless men whose service guards our shore 

Lengthen still their glory-roll 

With his name to lead the scroll, 
As a flagship at her fore 

Carries the Union, with its azure and the stars. 
Symbol of times that are no more 

And the old heroic wars. 

He was the one 

Whom Death had spared alone 

Of all the captains of that lusty age, 
Who sought the foeman where he lay, 
On sea or sheltering bay, 

Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their rage. 
They are gone — all gone : 

They rest with glory and the undying powers ; 

Only their name and fame and what they saved are ours ! 



142 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

It was fifty years ago, 

Upon the Gallic Sea, 

He bore the banner of the free, 
And fought the fight whereof our children know. 

The dreadful, desperate fight! — 

Under the fair moon's light 
The frigate squared, and yawed to left and right. 

Every broadside swept to death a score ! 
Roundly played her guns and well, till their fiery ensigns fell, 

Neither foe replying more. 

All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the air. 

Old Ironsides rested there. 
Locked in between the twain, and drenched with blood. 

Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey ! 

Oh, it was a gallant fray, 

That fight at Biscay Bay ! 
Fearless the Captain stood, in his youthful hardihood; 

He was the boldest of them all. 

Our brave old Admiral ! 

And still our heroes bleed. 
Taught by that olden deed. 

Whether of iron or of oak 
The ships we marshal at our country's need, 

Still speak their cannon now as then they spoke ; 
Still floats our unstruck banner from the mast 
As in the stormy past. 

Lay him in the ground : 

Let him rest where the ancient river rolls ; 
Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the sound 

Of the bell whose proclamation, as it tolls, 
Is of Freedom and the gift our fathers gave. 

Lay him gently down : 

The clamor of the town 
Will not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful ripe sleep 

Of this lion of the wave, 

Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave. 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 143 

Earth to earth his dust is laid. 
Methinks his stately shade 

On the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore ; 
Over cloudless western seas 
Seeks the far Hesperides, 

The islands of the blest, 
Where no turbulent billows roar — 

Where is rest. 

His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands 
Nearing the deathless lands. 

There all his martial mates, renewed and strong, 

Await his coming long. 
I see the happy Heroes rise 

With gratulation in their eyes : 

* 

"Welcome, old comrade," Lawrence cries ; 
"Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars ! 
Who win the glory and the scars? 
How floats the skyey flag ? how many stars ? 
Still speak they of Decatur's name ? 
Of Bainbridge's and Perry's fame? 
Of me, who earliest came ? 
Make ready, all : 
Room for the Admiral ! 
Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars !" 




PHOTO BY HOlililNOER 4 CO., ». Y. 



PAUL L. FORD 



144 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 145 

GATHER YE ROSEBUDS WHILE YE MAY" 

A PART OF ONE CHAPTER FROM THE HONORABLE PETER STEKI^ING 

BY PAUL LEICESTER FORD 

(Born at Brooklyn, N. Y., 1865) 

FEW days later Peter again went up the steps of the Fifty-seventh Street 
house. This practice was becoming habitual with Peter ; in fact, so 
habitual that his cabby had said to him this very day, "The old place, 
sir ?" Where Peter got the time it is difBcult to understand, consider- 
ing that his law practice was said to be large, and his political occu- 
pations just at present not small. But that is immaterial. The simple 
fact that Peter went up the steps is the essential truth. 

From the steps he passed into a door ; from the door he passed into a hall ; 
from a hall he passed into a room ; from a room he passed into a pair of arms. 

"Thank the Lord, you've come," Watts remarked. "Leonore has up and 
down refused to make the tea till you arrived." 

"I was at headquarters, and they would talk, talk, talk," said Peter. "I get 
out of patience with them. One would think the destinies of the human race de- 
pended on this campaign !" 

"So the Growley should have his tea," said a vision, now seated on the lounge 
at the tea-table. "Then Growley will feel better." 

"I'm doing that already," said Growley, sitting down on the delightfully 
short lounge, now such a fashionable and deservedly popular drawing-room arti- 
cle. "May I tell you how you can make me absolutely contented?" 

"I suppose that will mean some favor from me," said Leonore. "I don't 
like children who want to be bribed out of their bad temper. Nice little boys are 
never bad-tempered." 

"I was only bad-tempered," whispered Peter, "because I was kept from be- 
ing with you. That's cause enough to make the best-tempered man in the uni- 
verse murderous." 

"Well?" said Leonore, mollifying, "what is it this time?" 

"I want you all to come down to my quarters this evening after dinner. Fve 
received warning that Fm to be serenaded about nine o'clock, and I thought you 
would like to hear it." 

"What fun !" cried Leonore. "Of course we'll go. Shall you speak ?" 

"No. We'll sit in my window-seats merely, and listen." 

"How manv will be there?" 



10 


•Worl.r will |U-c>l> 
oicc (^f l.ahor' 'a 1 


altl\ say ton thou- 
handful.' 01i!h\ 


,lH 


^k \\\)\u his |n>cko 
rotor iiad found. 


t. 
whonovcr the pa- 



146 BEST THINGS V\<0\\ AMVAUCW l.l'iM'.RATr Rl< 

"It depends on the paper you read. T 
sand, the "Tribune' three thousand, and the 
the way, I brought \ou a '\dioo'." 

He handed Leonoro a paiHT, whioh l.o loo 

Now this was sinipl\ shauioful of him 
pers really abused him. that Loonoro was iloubly toiulor Ui him. the more, if he 
pretended that the attaeks ant! abuse painoil him. So ho 1 rought her rogularI\ 
uow that organ of the Labor Party whioh was most vituperative of him, and 
looked sad over it just as long as was possible, oousidoring that Keonore was try- 
ing to eomfort him. 

"Oh, dear!" said Leonoro. "That dreadful paper. 1 oan't bear to read it. 
Is it very bad to-day ?" 

"I haven't read it." said Potor. smiling. "1 never read — " then Peter 
coughed, suddenlv looked sad, ixud oonitinuod — "the parts that dit ntit speak of 
me." "That isn't a lie," ho told himself. "I don't road thotu." lUit he felt guilty. 
Clearly Peter was losing his old-time straightforwariluoss. 

"After its saying that you had tloceived yom- olieuts into settling tlu)se suits 
against ]\Ir. Bohlniann, upon his promise io help \(ni in politics, 1 don't believe 
they can say anything worse," said Leonoro, putting two lumps of sugar (with her 
fingers) into a cup of tea. Then she stirred the tea, and tasted it. Then she 
touched the edge of the cup with her lips. ■ "Is that right?" she asked, as she 
passed it to Peter. 

"Absolutely," said Peter, looking the picture of bliss. l>ut then he remem- 
bered that this wasn't his role, so he looked sad and said : "That hurt mo, I con- 
fess. It is so unkind." 

"Poor dear," whispered a voice. "You shall have an extra one to-day, and 
you shall take just as long as you want !" 

Now, how could mortal man look grieved, even over an American newspa- 
per, with that prospect in view? It is true that "one" is a very indefinite thing. 
Perhaps Leonore merely meant another cup of tea. Whatever she meant, Peter 
never learned, for, barely had he tasted his tea when the girl on the lounge beside 
him gave a cry. She rose, and as she did so, some of the tea-things fell to the 
floor with a crash. 

"Leonore!" cried Peter. "\Miat — " 

"Peter!" cried Leonore. "Say it isn't so?" It was terrible to sec the suf- 
fering in her face and to hear the appeal in her voice. 

"My darling." cried the mother, "what is the matter?" 

"It can't be," cried Leonore. "Mamma! Papa! Say it isn't so?" 

"What, my darling?" said Peter, supporting the swaying figure. 

"This." said Leonore, huskilv. holding out the new.spaper. 



IVM'L IJ'ICRSTKR FORI) 147 

Mrs. D'Alloi snatched it. One glance she gave it. "Oh, my poor darling!" 
she cried. "I ought not to have allowed it. Peter! Peter! Was not the stain 
great enough but \ou must make my poor child suffer for it?" She shoved Peter 
away, and clasped Leonorc wildly in her arms. 

"Mamma!" cried I.conore. "Don't talk so! Don't! 1 know he didn't! 
I Ic couldn't !" 

I'eter caught up the jjajjcr. There in big head-lines was: 

sim«:ak n\ stikung! 
WHO IS Tins r.ov? 

Oetective Peltcr Finds a Ward L'nkncnvn to tlie Courts, and Explanations Are 

in r)rder iM'om 

PURITY STIRLING. 

The rest of the article it is needless to (-|uote. What it said was so worded 
as to convey everything vile by innuendo and inference, yet in truth saying 
iKjthing. 

"Oh, my darling!" continued Mrs. D'Alloi. "You have a right to kill me for 
letting him come here after he had confessed it to me. Rut I — oh, flon't tremble 
so. Oh, Watts ! We iiave killed her." 

Peter held the paper for a moment. Then he handed it to Watts. He only 
said "Watts?" but it was a cry for help and mercy as terrible as Leonore's had 
been the moment before. 

"Of course, chum," cried Watts. "Reonore, dear, it's all right. You 
mustn't mind. Peter's a good man. Ik'tter tlian most of us. You mustn't 
mind." 

"Don't," cried Leonore. "Let me speak. Mamma, did Peter tell you it 
was so?" 

All were silent. 

"Mamma! Say something? Papa! Peter! Will nobody speak?" 

"Leonore," said Peter, "do not doubt me. Trust me and I will — " 

"Tell me," cried Leonore, interrupting, "was this why you didn't come to 
see us? Oh! I see it all! This is what mamma knew. This is what pained 
you. And I thought it was your love — !" Leonore screamed. 

"My darling," cried Peter, wildly, "don't look so. Don't speak — " 

"Don't touch me," cried Leonore. "Don't. Only go away." Leonore 
threw herself upon the rug weeping. It was fearful the way those sobs shook 
her. 



148 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN' LITERATURE 

"It can't be." said Peter. "Watts! She is killing herself." 

But Watts had disappeared from the room. 

"Only go away," cried Leonore. "That's all you can do now. There's 
nothing to be done." 

Peter leaned over and picked up the prostrate figure, and laid it tenderly on 
the sofa. Then he kissed the edge of her skirt. "Yes. That's all I can do," he 
said, quietly. "Good-bye, sweetheart. I'll go away." He looked about as if be- 
wildered, then passed from the room to the hall, from the hall to the door, from 
the door to the steps. He went down them, staggering a little as if dizzy, and tried 
to walk towards the avenue. Presently he ran into something. "Clumsy," said 
a lady's voice. "I beg your pardon," said Peter, mechanically. A moment later 
he ran into something again. "I beg your pardon," said Peter, and two well- 
dressed girls laughed to see a bareheaded man apologize to a lamp-post. He 
walked on once more, but had not gone ten paces, when a hand was rested on his 
shoulder. 

"Now, then, my beauty." said a voice. "You want to get a cab, or 1 shall 
have to run you in. Where do you want to go?" 

"I beg your pardon," said Peter. 

"Come," said the policeman, shaking him; "where do you belong? My 
God! It's Mr. Stirling. Why, sir; what's the matter?" 

"I think I've killed her," said Peter. 

"He's awfully screwed," ejaculated the policeman. "And him of all men ! 
Nobody shall know." He hailed a passing cab, and put Peter into it. Then he 
gave Peter's office address, and also got in. He was fined the next day for be- 
ing ofif his beat "without adequate reasons," but he never told where he had been. 
When they reached the building, he helped Peter into the elevator. From there 
he helped him to his door. He rang the bell, but no answer came. It was past 
ofBce-hours, and Jenifer having been told that Peter would dine up-town, had 
departed on his leave of absence. The policeman had already gone through 
Peter's pockets to get money for cabby, and now he repeated the operation, tak- 
ing possession of Peter's keys. He opened the door and, putting him into a 
deep chair in the study, laid the purse and keys on Peter's desk, writing on a scrap 
of paper with much dil^culty: "mr. Stirling $2.50 I took to pay the carriage. 
John Motty policeman 22 precinct." he laid it beside the keys and purse. Then 
he went back to his beat. 

And what was Peter doing all this time? Just what he now did. He tried 
to think, though each eye felt as if a red hot needle was burning in it. Presently 
he rose, and began to pace, the floor, but he kept stumbling over the desk and 
chairs. As he stumbled he thought, sometimes to himself, sometimes aloud : 
"If I could only think ! I can't see. What was it Dr. Pilcere said about her 



PAUL LEICESTER FORD 149 

eyes ? Or was it my eyes ? Did he give me some medicine ? I can't remember. 
And it wouldn't help her. Why can't I think? What is this pain in her head 
and eyes? Why does everything look so dark, except when those pains go 
through her head ? They feel like flashes of lightning, and then I can see. Why 
can't I think ? Her eyes get in the way. He gave me something to put on them. 
But I can't give it to her. She told me to go away. To stop this agony ! How 
she suffers. It's getting worse every moment. I can't remember about the med- 
icine. There it comes again. Now I know. It's not lightning. It's the petro- 
leum ! Be quick, boys. Can't you hear my darling scream ? It's terrible. If I 
could only think. What was it the French doctor said to do, if it came back? 
No. W'e want to get some rails." Peter dashed himself against the window. 
"Once more, men, together. Can't you hear her scream? Break down the 
door!" Peter caught up and hurled a pot of flowers at the window, and the glass 
shattered and fell to the floor and street. "If I could see. But it's all dark. Are 
those lights? No. It's too late. I can't save her from it." 

So he wandered physically and mentally. Wandered till sounds of martial 
music came up through the broken window. "Fall in," cried Peter. "The An- 
archists are after her. It's dynamite, not lightning. Podds, don't let them hurt 
her. Save her. Oh ! save her ! Why can't I get to her? Don't try to hold me," 
he cried, as he came in contact with a chair. He caught it up and hurled 
it across the room, so that it crashed into the picture-frames, smashing chair and 
frames into fragments. "I can't be the one to throw it," he cried, in an agonized 
voice. "She's all I have. For years I've been so lonely. Don't. I can't throw it. 
It kills me to see her suffer. It wouldn't be so horrible if I hadn't done it myself. 
If I didn't love her so. But to blow her up myself. I can't. Men, will you 
stand by me, and help me to save her?" 

The band of music stopped. A moment's silence fell, and then up from the 
street came the air of: "Marching Through Georgia," five thousand voices sing- 
ing: 

Hurrah, hurrah, for Stirling, brave and strong; 
Hurrah, hurrah, for Stirling, never wrong. 
And roll the voters up in line, 
Two hundred thousand strong ; 
Voting for freedom and Stirling. 



Leonore knelt in front of Peter, and, drenching her fingers with the wash, 
began rubbing it softly over his eyes. It has always been a problem whether it 
was the remedy or the ends of those fingers which took those lines of suffering 



I50 BHwST TlllXC^S FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

out of Peter's face and made him sit quietly in that chair. Those having Uttle 
faith in medicines, and much faith in a woman's hands, will opine the latter. 
Doctors will not. 

Suflficeth it to say, after ten minutes of this treatment, during which Peter's 
face had slowly changed, first to a look of rest, and then to one which denoted 
eagerness, doubt and anxiety, but not pain, that he finall>' put out his hands and 
took Leonore's. 

"You have come to me," he said. "Has he told you?" 

"Who? What?" asked Leonore. 

"You still think I could?" cried Peter. "Then why are you here?" He 
opened his eyes wildly and would have risen, onl}- Leonore was kneeling in front 
of the chair still. 

"Don't excite yourself. Peter," begged Leonore. "We'll not talk of that 
now. Not till you are better." 

"What are you here for?" cried Peter. "W'hy did you come " 

"Oh, please, Peter, be quiet." 

"Tell me, I will have it." Peter was exciting himself, more from Leonore's 
look than by what she said. 

"Oh, Peter. I made papa bring me — because — oh ! 1 wanted to ask you 
to do something. For my sake !" 

"What is it?" 

"I wanted to ask you," sobbed Leonore, "to marry her. Then I shall always 
think vou were what I — I — have been loving, and not — " Leonore laid her head 
down on his knee, and sobbed bitterly. 

Peter raised Leonore in his arms, and laid the little head on his shoulder. 

"Dear one," he said, "do you love me?" 

"Yes," sobbed Leonore. 

"And do you think I love you?" 

"Yes." 

"Now look into your heart. Could you tell me a lie?" 

"No." 

"Nor can T vou. I am not the father of that boy. and I never wronged his 
mother." 

"l)Ut you told " .sobbed Leonore. 

"I lied to your mother, dear." 

"For what?" Leonore had lifted her head and there was a look of hope in 
her eyes, as well as of doubt. 

"Because it was better at that time than the truth. But Watts will tell you 
that I lied." 

"Papa?" 



PAUL LICICESTIOR FORD 151 

"Yes, Dot. Dear old Peter speaks the truth." 

"But if you Hed to her, why not to me?" 

"I can't He to you, Leonore. I am tclHn^- you the truth. Won't you be- 
Hcvc me?" 

"I do," cried Lconore. "I know \ou speak ihc truth. It's in your face and 
voice." And the next moment her arms were al)out Peter's neck, and her hps 
were on his. 

just then some one in the "lorchhght" shouted: "What's the matter wid 
vStirhui;?" 

And a thousand voices joyfull\' yelled: 

"lie's all riirht." 

And so was the crowd. 



f.l.^ 





DR. S. WHIK MITCHBLL 



152 




ilJiST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 153 



A NIGHT BATTLE OF THE REVOLUTION 

BEING A I'AKT Ol' ONK CHAI'TKK KKOM ULCJH WYNNIC 

BY S. WEIR MITCHELL 

(Born Philadelphia, Pa., Feb. 15, 1S30) 

N the niglit of the 9th of October His Excellency put a match to the first 
<;un, and for f(jur days and nights a furious cannonade went on from 
both sides. 

Late on the night of the 10th Jack came to my tent, and we 
walked out to see this terrible spectacle, climbing a little hill which 
lay well away from our lines. For a time we were quite alone. 

A monstrous dome of smoke hung over the town. Now and then a gust of 
sea wind tore it apart, and through the rifts we saw the silver cup of the moon 
and the host of stars. We lay long on the hillock. I suppose the hour and the 
mighty fates involved made us serious and silent. Far away seventy cannon 
thundered from our works, and the enemy's batteries roared their incessant fury of 
reply. 

Presently I said, "J^^l^' l^ow still the heavens are, and under them this rage of 
war ! How strange !" 

"Yes," said Jack ; "once I said something of this tranquilness in the skies to 
our great Dr. Franklin. He is very patient with young fellows, but he said to 
me : 'Yes, it is a pleasing thing, even to be wrong about it. It is only to the eye 
of man that there is calm and peace in the heavens ; no shot of cannon can fly as 
these worlds fly, and comets whirl, and suns blaze ; and if there is yonder, as with 
us, war and murder and ravage, none can say.' It all comes back to me now," 
said Jack, "and I thought to tell you." 

"Jt is a terrible sight," said I, as the great tumult of sound grew louder. 
"Let us thank God the cause is a just one." 

"And there are the stars again," said Jack, "and the moon." And we were 
silent once more, watching the death-struggle of a failing cause. 

Our own mad world was far other than at peace. The great bombs rose in 
vast curves overhead, with trails of light, and, seeming to hesitate in mid-air, ex- 
ploded, or fell on town or ship or in the stream between. As we looked, awe- 
struck, hot shot set fire to the "Charon." a forty-four-gun ship, nigh to Glouces- 
ter, and soon a red rush of fire twining about mast and spar rose in air. lighting 

Reproduced by permi-ssion of The Century Co., N. Y. 



154 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

the sublime spectacle, amid the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry and multi- 
tudinous inexplicable noises, through which we heard now and then the wild 
howl of a dog from some distant farm-yard. 

At last the warship blew up, and a wonderful strong light lighted the town, 
the river, and the camp. As it fell the dog bayed again, a long, sharp, wavering 
cry. 

This seemed to me to impress Jack Warder more than anything else in this 
din of war. He said now and again, "There is that dog," and wondered what 
the beast thought of it all. It is curious upon what the minds of men fix on grave 
occasions. I meant to ask Jack why he spoke over and over of the dog when be- 
fore us was the bloody close of a great historic tragedy, a king humbled ; a young 
republic at sword-point with an ancient monarchy. 

It seemed to me a man's mind must grow in the presence of such, might of 
events. The hill, a half-mile from the lines, was a good vantage-ground whence 
to see and hear. Jack and I smoked many pipes, and, as he was not for duty in 
the trenches, lay here most of that cool October night, wrapped in our cloaks. 
Sometimes we talked ; more often we were silent, and ever the great cannon 
roared from trench and bastion, or were quiet awhile to let their hot lips cool. 

Once Jack fell to talk of how he and I were changed from the quiet Quaker 
lads we had been, and did I remember our first fight, and Colonel Rupert Forest, 
and Master Dove? That greater master, War, since then had educated and 
broadened us. He was more philosophic than I, and liked thus to speculate ; but 
of Darthea he said never a word, though we spoke of many things that memor- 
able night. 

At last, when it was near to dawn. Jack jumped up, crying, "Oh, confound 
that dog!" He had what I never had, some remnant of the superstitions of our 
ancestors, and I suspect that the howl of the poor beast troubled him. I guessed 
at this when he said presently, "I suppose we shall have to carry the place by 
storm." 

"Now, don't tell me you will get hit," said I. "You always say that. There 
are enough dead men to set every dog in Virginia a-howling." 

^c * * :!: * :|: :|: 

Then a rocket rose high in air over our camp. "Ready, men!" said Hamil- 
ton, while I drew my long Hessian blade. 

Six bombs in quick succession rose and went over us. I heard the marquis 
cry out, "En avaiit! Forward !" 

"Forward, sappers!" cried a voice in front. 

"Come along, boys!" cried Jack. And not giving the sappers more than 
time to scramble up, we were ofT in a swift rush through the darkness. The 



S. WEIR MITCHELL 155 

quickly formed line broke irregularly as we ran over the space between us and 
the abatis, the sappers vainly trying to keep ahead. 

As we rushed forward, my legs serving me well, I saw that they in the 
redoubt knew what was coming. A dozen rockets went up, Bengal fires of a 
sudden lighted their works, a cannon-shot went close to my head, and all pande- 
monium seemed to break loose. 

At the stockade, a hundred feet from their works, our men pushed aside the 
sappers, and tore down the rude barrier, or tumbled over it. They were used to 
fences. Here Gimat was hurt, and Kirkpatrick, of the pioneers, and a moment 
later Colonel Barber. 

The hundred feet beyond were passed at a run, and the men with fascines 
cast them into the ditch. It was already half full of the wreck the cannon had 
made in the earthwork. We jumped in, and out ; it was all mud and water. 
Ladders were set against the parapet, but the slope was now not abrupt, having 
been crumbled away by our guns, so that most of us scrambled up without delay. 
I saw Captain Hunt fall, the enemy firing wildly. If Sergeant Brown of the 
Fourth Connecticut, or Mansfield of the Forlorn Hope, were first on the parapet, 
I do not know. Hamilton got by me, and I saw him set a foot on the shoulder 
of a man and jump onto the top of the redoubt. Why more or all were not 
killed seems to me a wonder. I think if the enemy had been cooler we had been 
easily disposed of. I saw the girl-boy leap down among the bayonets, and we 
were at once in a hurly-burly of redcoats, our men with and after us. 

For a little there was fierce resistance and a furious struggle, of which T 
recall only a remembrance of smoke, red flashes, yells, and a confusion of men 
striking and thrusting. A big Hessian caught me a smart thrust in the left leg 
— no great hurt. Another with his butt pretty nearly broke my left arm, as I 
put it up to save my head. I ran him through and felt that they were giving way. 

To the left and right was still a mad struggle, and what with the Bengal 
fires still blazing, and a heap of brush in flames at one side of the redoubt, there 
was light enough to see. Near about me was a clear space, and a pause such as 
occurs now and then in such a scrimmage. There were still men who held back, 
and to whom, as I pushed on, I called, "Come on ! We have them !" A great 
wind from the sea blew the smoke away, so that it was easy to see. As I called 
out to the men who hesitated on the outer slope, as some will. I heard before me 
a voice cry, "This way, men !" and, turning, caught sight of the face of Arthur 
Wynne. He, too, saw and knew me. He uttered an oath, I remember, crying 
out, "At last !" as I dashed at him. 

I heard ahead of me cries for "Quarter! quarter!" The mass of striving 
men had fallen back, and in fact the business was at an end. I saw Jack run 



156 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

from my left toward me, but he stood still when he saw what was happening, and 
instantly, as he came, Arthur and I crossed swords. What else chanced or who 
else came near I knew not. I saw for the time only that one face I so hated, 
for the heap of brush in the work was still blazing. 

As is true of every Wynne I ever knew, when in danger I became cool at 
once. I lost no time, but pressed him hard with a glad sense that he was no 
longer my master at the game. I meant to kill him, and as he fell back I knew 
that at last his hour had come. I think he too knew it. He fenced with caution, 
and was as cool as I. Just as I touched him in the right shoulder I felt a 
wounded Hessian clutch my leg. I fell squarely backward, my cousin lunging 
savagely as I dropped. I had been done for had not Jack struck up his blade as 
I lay, calling out : 

"Coward !" 

I was up in a moment, pretty savage, and caught sight of my Jack fencing 
with my man, as calm as if we were in old Pike's gallery. As I stood panting — 
it was but a moment — I saw Jack's blade whip viciously round Arthur's and 
pass through his breast, nearly to the guard. 

My cousin cried I know not what, fell to one side, and then in a heap across 
a dead grenadier. 

"Better I than thou," cried Jack, blowing hard. "He will play no more 
tricks. Come on !" 

With a glance at my enemy, I hurried past him over dead and wounded men, 
a cannon upset, muskets cast away, and what not. 

"This way, Wynne," said the marquis. "C'est tini ! Get those fellows to- 
gether, gentlemen." 

Our men were huddling the prisoners in a corner and collecting their arms. 
A red-faced New Hampshire captain was angrily threatening Major Campbell, 
the commander of the redoubt, who had just surrendered. Colonel Hamilton 
struck up the captain's blade, or I do believe he would have killed the major. 
He was furious over the death of Colonel Scammel, who was greatly beloved, 
and had been killed by Hessians after having given up his sword. 

It was over, and I went back to see what had become of Arthur. He was 
alive, and having dragged himself to the inner wall of the redoubt, was now 
seated against it. Jack soon found a 'antern, and by its light we looked at Ar- 
thur. He was covered with blood, but was conscious, and stared at me with 
dull eyes, without power to say a word. 

"Take care of him, Jack." said I. and went away down the crumbled slope 
and through the broken abatis, while overhead the bombs howled with unearthly 
noises and the cannonrv broke out anew. 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 157 



UNDER THE LION'S PAW 

BEING ONE CHAPTER KROM THE TAI.K OF THAT TITI.K IN MAIN TRAVE1,I,ED ROADS" 

BY HAMLIN GARLAND 

(Born at West vSalem, Wis., September 16, :86o) 

III. 

ASKINS worked like a fiend, and his wife, like the heroic woman she 
was, bore also uncomplainingly the most terrible btirdens. They rose 
early and toiled without intermission till the darkness fell on the plain, 
then tumbled into bed, every bone and muscle aching- with fatigue, 
to rise with the sun next morning to the same round of the same 
ferocity of labor. 

The eldest boy drove a team all through the Spring, ploughing and seeding, 
milked the cows, and did chores innumerable, in most ways taking the place of 
a man. 

An infinitely pathetic but common figure — this boy on the American farm, 
where there is no law against child labor. To see him in his coarse clothing, 
his huge boots, and his ragged cap, as he staggered with a pail of water from the 
well, or trudged in the cold and cheerless dawn out into the frosty field behind 
his team, gave the city-bred visitor a sharp pang of sympathetic pain. Yet Ras- 
kins loved his boy, and would have saved him from this if he could, but he 
could not. 

By June the first year the result of such Herculean toil began to show on the 
farm. The yard was cleaned up and sown to grass, the garden ploughed and 
planted, and the house mended. 

Council had given them four of his cows. 

"Take 'em an' run 'em on shares. I don't want a milk s' many. Ike's away 
s' much now, Sat'd'ys an' Sund'ys, I can't stand the bother, anyhow." 

Other men, seeing the confidence of Council in the new-comer, had sold 
him tools on time ; and as he was really an able farmer, he soon had round him 
many evidences of his care and thrift. At the advice of Council, he had taken 
the farm for three years, with the privilege of re-renting or buying at the end of 
the term. 

"It's a good bargain, an' y' want o' nail it," said Council. "If you have any 
kind ov a crop, you c'n pay y'r debts, an' keep seen an' bread." 

The new hope which now sprang up in the heart of Raskins and his wife 



158 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

grew great almost as a pain by the time the wide field of wheat began to wave 
and rustle and swirl in the winds of July. Day after day he would snatch a few 
moments after supper to go and look at it. 

"Have ye seen the wheat t"-day, Nettie?" he asked one night as he rose 
from supper. 

"No, Tim, I ain't had time." 

"Well, take time now. Let's go look at it." 

She threw an old hat on her head — Tommy's hat — and looking almost pretty 
in her thin sad way, went out with her husband to the liedge. 

"Ain't it grand, Nettie? Just look at it." 

It was grand. Level, russet here and there, heavy-headed, wide as a lake, 
and full of multitudinous whispers and gleams of wealth, it stretched away 
before the gazers like the fabled field of the cloth of gold. 

"Oh, I think — 1 Italic we'll have a good crop. Tim; and oh, how good the 
people have been to us!" 

"Yes; I don't know where we'd be t'-day if it hadn't been f'r Council and 
his wife." 

"They're the best people in the world," said the little woman, with a great 
sob of gratitude. 

"We'll be in the field on Monday, sure," said Haskins, griping the rail on the 
fence as if already at the work of the harvest. 

The harvest came, bounteous, glorious, but the winds came and blew it into 
tangles, and the rain matted it here and there close to the ground, increasing the 
work of gathering it threefold. 

Oh, how they toiled in those glorious days ! Clothing dripping with sweat, 
arms aching, filled with briers, fingers raw and bleeding, backs broken with the 
weight of heavy bundles, Haskins and his man toiled on. Tommy drove the 
harvester, while his father and a hired man bound on the machine. In this way 
they cut ten acres every day, and almost every night after supper, when the hand 
went to bed, Haskins returned to the field, shocking the bound grain in the light 
of the moon. Many a night he worked till his anxious wife came out at ten 
o'clock to call him in to rest and lunch. 

At the same time she cooked for the men, took care of the children, washed 
and ironed, milked the cows at night, made the butter, and sometimes fed the 
horses and watered them while her husband kept at the shocking. 

No slave in the Roman galleys could have toiled so frightfully and lived, for 
this man thought himself a free man, and that he was working for his wife and 
babes. 

When he sank into his bed with a deep groan of relief, too tired to change 



TiAMLIN GARLAxXD 159 

his grimy, dripping clothing, he felt that he was getting nearer and nearer to 
a home of his own, and pushing the wolf of want a little farther from his door. 

Tlicrc is no despair so deep as the despair of a homeless man or woman. To 
roam the roads of the country or the streets of the city, to feci there is no rood 
of ground on which the feet can rest, to halt weary and hungry outside lighted 
windows and hear laughter and song within — these are the hungers and rebellions 
that drive men to crime and women to shame. 

It was the memory of this hopelessness, and the fear of its coming again, 
that spurred Timothy Ilaskins and Nettie, his wife, to such ferocious labor during 
that first year. 

IV. 

'"M, yes ; 'm, yes ; first-rate," said Butler, as his eye took in the neat garden, 
the pig-pen, and the well-filled barn-yard. "You're git'n' quite a stock around 
yeh. Done well, eh?" 

Haskins was showing Butler around the place. He had not seen it for a year, 
liaving spent the year in Washington and Boston with Ashley, his brother-in- 
law, who had been elected to Congress. 

"Yes, I've laid out a good deal of money during the last three years. I've 
paid out three hundred dollars f'r fcncin'." 

"Tm — h'm ! ! see, I see," said Butler, while Haskins went on: 

"The kitchen there cost two hundred ; the barn ain't cost much in money, but 
I've put in a lot o' time on it. I've dug a new well, and I " 

"Yes, yes. I see! You've done well. Stawk worth a thousand dollars," 
said Butler, picking his teeth with a straw. 

"About that," said Haskins, modestly. "We begin to feel 's if we was git'n 
a home f'r ourselves ; but we've worked hard. I tell you, we begin to feel it, Mr. 
Butler, and we're goin' t' begin to ease up purty soon. We've been kind o' plan- 
nin' a trip back t' her folks after the fall ploughin's done." 

''Eggs-2iCt\y !" said Butler, who was evidently thinking of something else. 
"I suppose you've kind o' cal'c'lated on stayin' here three years more?" 

"Well, yes. Fact is, I think I c'n buy the farm this fall, if you'll give me 
a reasonable show." 

"Um — m! What do you call a reasonable show?" 

"Wal, say a quarter down and three years' time." 

Butler looked at the huge stacks of wheat, which filled the yard, over which 
the chickens were fluttering and crawling, catching grasshoppers, and out of 
which the crickets were singing innumerably. He smiled in a peculiar way as 
he said, "Oh, I won't be hard on yeh. But what did you expect to pay for the 
place ?" 



i6o BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"W'hv, about what you ottered it before, two thousand five lunidrcd, or 
possibly three thousand dollars," he added (uurkly. as he saw the owner shake his 
head. 

"This farm is worth five thousand an.' five hundred dollars," said Butler, 
in a careless and decided voice. 

"JVhatr almost shrieked the astounded Haskins. "What's that? Five 
thousand? Why, that's double what you offered it for three years ago." 

"Of course ; and it's worth it. It was all run down then ; now it's in good 
shape. You've laid out fifteen hundred dollars in improvements, according to 
your own story." 

"But yoit had nothin' t' do about that. It's my work an" my money." 

"You bet it was ; but it's my land." 

"But what's to pay me for all my " 

"Ain't you had the use of 'em ?" replied Butler, smiling calmly into his face. 

Haskins was like a man struck on the head with a sandbag; he couldn't 
think; he stammered as he tried to say: "But — I neverid git the use — you'd rob 
me ! More'n that — you agreed — you promised that I could buy or rent at the 
end of three years at " 

"That's all right. But I didn't say I'd let you carry ofif the improvements, 
nor that I'd go on renting the farm at two-fifty. The land is double in value, it 
don't matter how ; it don't enter into the question ; an' now you can pay me five 
hundred dollars a year rent, or take it on your own terms at fifty-five hundred, or 
— git out." 

He was turning away when Haskins. the sweat pouring from his face, fronted 
him, saying again : 

"But youz'c done nothing to make it so. You hain't added a cent. I put it 
all there myself, exceptin' to buy. I worked an' sweat to improve it. I was 
workin' for myself an' babes " 

"Well, why didn't you buy when I offered to sell? What y' kickin' about?" 

"I'm kickin' about payin' you twice f'r my own things — my own fences, my 
own kitchen, my own garden." 

Butler laughed. "You're too green t'eat, young feller. Your improvements ! 
The law will sing another tune." 

"But I trusted your word." 

"Never trust anybody, my friend. Besides, I didn't promise not to do this 
thing. Why, man, don't look at me like that. Don't take me for a thief. It's 
the law. The reg'lar thing. Everybody does it." 

"I don't care if they do. It's stealin' jest the same. You take three thou- 
sand dollars of my money — the work o' my hands and my wife's." He broke 



HAMLIN GARLAND i6i 

down at this point. He was not a strong man mentally. He could face hard- 
ship, ceaseless toil, but he could not face the cold and sneering face of Butler. 

"But I don't take it." said Butler, coolly. "All you've got to do is to go on 
jest as you've been a-doin', or gi\e me a thousand dollars down, and a mortgage 
at ten per cent, on the rest." 

Haskins sat down blindly on a bundle of oats nearby, and with staring eyes 
and drooping head went over the situation. He was under the lion's paw. He 
felt a horrible numbness in his heart and limbs. He was hid in a mist, and there 
was no path out. 

Butler walked about, looking at the huge stacks of grain, and pulling now 
md again a few handfuls out, shelling the heads in his hands and blowing the 
chafif away. He hummed a little tune as he did so. He had an accommodating 
air of waiting. 

Haskins was in the midst of the terrible toil of the last year. He was walking 
again in the rain and the mud behind his plough ; he felt the dust and dirt of the 
threshing. The ferocious husking-time, with its cutting wind and biting, cling- 
ing snows, lay hard upon him. Then he thought of his wife, how she had cheer- 
fully cooked and baked, without holiday and without rest. 

"Well, what do you think of it?" inquired the cool, mocking, insinuating 
voice of Butle;. 

"I think you're a thief and a liar!" shouted Haskins, leaping up. "A black- 
hearted houn' !" Butler's smile maddened him ; with a sudden leap he caught 
a fork in his hands and whirled it in the air. "You'll never rob another man, 
damn ye!" he grated through his teeth, a look of pitiless ferocity in his accusing 
eyes. 

Butler shrank and quivered, expecting the blow; stood, held hypnotized 
by the eyes of the man he had a moment before despised — a man transformed 
into an avenging demon. But in the deadly hush between the lift of the weapon 
and its fall there came a gush of faint, childish laughter and then across the range 
of his vision, far away and dim, he saw the sun-bright head of his baby girl, as, 
with the pretty tottering run of a two-year-old, she moved across the grass of the 
door-yard. His hands relaxed ; the fork fell to the ground ; his head lowered. 

"Make out y'r deed an' mor'gage, an' git of¥'n my land, an' don't ye never 
cross my line ag'in ; if y' do, I'll kill ye." 

Butler backed away from the man in wild haste, and, climbing into his buggy 
with trembling limbs, drove off down the road, leaving Haskins seated dumbly on 
the sunny pile of sheaves, his head sunk into his hands. 




/ 




WILLIS BROOKS HAWKINS 



162 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 163 



LANGUAGE THAT NEEDS A REST 

BY WILLIS BROOKS HAWKINS 

(Born in Aurora, ]11., 1S52) 

WAS awakened in the middle of the night by a disturbance in the Hbrary. 
It (Hd not seem to be the noise of burglars. It was more like the mur- 
muring sound of many tongues engaged in a spirited debate. I listened 
closely and concluded it must be some sort of a discussion being held 
by the words in my big unabridged dictionary. Creeping softly to the 
door, I stood and listened. 

"I don't care," said the little word Of. "I may not be very big, but that is 
no reason why everybody should take advantage of me. I am the most merci- 
lessly overworked word in the dictionary, and there is no earthly reason for it, 
either. People say they 'consider of and 'approve of and 'accept of and 'admit 
of all sorts of things. Then they say 'all of us,' and 'both of them,' and 'first of 
all,' and tell about 'looking out of the window, or cutting a piece of bread 'off of 
the loaf, until I am utterly tired out." 

"Pshaw!" said the word Up, "I am not much bigger than you, and I do twice 
as much work, and a good deal of it needlessly, too. People 'wake up' in the 
morning and 'get up' and 'shake up' their beds and 'dress up' and 'wash up' and 
'draw up' to the table, and 'eat up' and 'drink up' their breakfast. Then they 
■jump up' from the table and 'hurry up' to the corner, where the street-car 
driver 'pulls up' his horses and the passengers 'ascend up" the steps and 'go up' 
into the front seats, and the conductor 'takes up' the tickets. All this is done 
even before people 'get up' town and 'take up' their day's work. From that 
time until they 'put up' their books and 'shut up' their oflfices I do more work 
than any two words in this book ; and even after business hours I am worked until 
people 'lock up' their homes and 'go up' to bed and 'cover themselves up' and 
'shut up' their eyes for the night. It would take a week to tell what I have to 
'put up' with in a day, and I am a good deal 'worked up' over it." 

"I agree that both Up and Of are very much overworked," said the word 
Stated, "but I think I, myself, deserve a little sympathy. I am doing not only 
my own legitimate work, but also that which ought to be done by my friend Said. 
Nobody 'says' anything nowadays ; he always 'states it.' " 

"Yes," chipped in the funny little word Pim, "these are very stately times." 

Some of the words laughed at this, but Humor said : ''Pun is a simpleton." 



i64 BEST THINGS FRcnr AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Xo." answered JJ'it: "he is a fellow of duplicities." ■ 

"He makes me tired," said Slang. 

Then the discussion was resumed. 

"I do a great deal of needless work." said the word But. "People say they 
have no doubt 'but that' it will rain, anil that they shouldn't wonder 'but what' it 
would snow, until I don't know "but' 1 shall strike." 

"What I have most to complain about," said the word As, "is that I am 
forced to associate so much with the word Equally. Only yesterday a man said 
he could 'see equally as well as' another man. I don't see what business 
Equally had in that sentence." 

"Well," retorted Equally, "men every day say that something is 'equally as 
good' as something else, and I don't see what business As has in that sentence." 

'"T think." said Propriety, "you two should be divorced by mutual consent." 

There was a fluttering sound and a clamor of voices. 

"W^e, too, ought to be granted divorce," was the substance of what they 
said ; and among the voices I recognized those of the following-named couples : 
Cover Over, Enter In, From Thence, Go Fetch, Have Got, Latter End, Continue 
On, Converse Together, Neiv Beginner, Old J'eteran, Return Back, Rise Up, Si)ik 
Dozvn, They Both, Try And, More Perfect, Seldom Ever, Almost Never, Feel Badly, 
I'nited Together, Tivo First, An One, Over Again, Repeat Again, and many others. 

Wlien quietude had been restored, the word Rest said : "You words all talk 
of being overworked as if that \vere the worst thing that could happen to a fellow, 
but I tell you it is much worse to be cut out of your own work. Now, look at 
me. Here I am ready and willing to perform my part in the speech of the day, 
but almost everybody passes by me and employs my awkward friend, Balance 
It is the commonest thing in the world to hear people say they will pay the 'bal- 
ance' of a debt or will sleep the 'balance' of the night." 

"I sufifer considerably from this same kind of neglect." said the word Deem. 
"Nobody ever 'deems' a thing beautiful any more : it is always 'considered' beauti- 
ful, when in fact it is not considered at all." 

"True," said Irritate; "and people talk of being 'aggravated' when th.ey 
ought instead to give me work." 

"And me," said Purpose; "look at me. I get hardly anything to do be- 
cause people are always 'proposing' to do this or that when no idea of a propo- 
sition is involved. AVhy, I read the other day of a man who had 'proposed' to 
murder another, when really he had never said a word about it to a living being. 
Of course he only purposed to commit murder." 

"If it is my turn," said the word Among, "I should like to protest against 
Mr. Betzvccn doing my work. The idea of people saying a man divided an 
orange 'between' his three children ! It humiliates me." 



WILLIS BROOKS HAWKINS 165 

"It is no worse," said the word Fczvcr, "than to have people say there were 
"'less' men in one army than in another." 

"No," added More Than; "and no worse than to have them say there were 
'over' one hundred thousand men." 

"It seems to me," said the word Likely, "that nobody has more reason for 
complaint than I have. My friend Liable is doing nearly all my work. They 
say a man is 'liable' to be sick or 'liable' to be out of town, when the (juestion 
of liability does not enter into the matter at all." 

"You're no worse off than I am." said the little word So. "That fellow 
.S"//(7/ is doing- all my work. People say there never was 'such' a glorious country 
as this, when, of course, they mean there never was 'so' glorious a country else- 
where." 

I saw that there was likely to be no end to this discussion, since half the 
words in the dictionary were making efforts to put in their ct)mplaints, so I re- 
turned to my couch ; and I will leave it to any person who has read this account 
whether I had not already heard enough to make me (M- anybody else sleepy. 



U^^te^'0..|i^W^A:M;^ 





HENRY WADSWOKTH LONGFELLOW 



i66 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 167 



THE RAINY DAY 

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

(Born at Portland, Me., Feb. 27, 1807; died at Cambridge, Mass., March 24, 1882) 

The day is cold and dark and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the moldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold and dark and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the moldering past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all — 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 




CLINTON ROSS 



168 




JU'ST THINGS l<k()M y\Ml<KlCAN LITERATURE 169 



THE DECOY DESPATCH 

BY CLINTON ROSS 

(Horn at I5ii)},rli;iiiit()ii, X. V., July ;,i, iS6i) 

CAX rcnu'nil)iT il so well (hat tlic whole scene is bcfofe iiic as vividly as 
if il well' now. and I can l;() over in)' own (lucstionings as the inatler 
was ptit. It was. indeed, the Jersey prison-ship, the Suj^ar I louse, or 
this. It was to he tied, when I, wiio always had been, a^ain nnj^ht be 
free. And more, 1 should i;ain some comfort of riches, when 1 and 
mine always had slaved to poverty. Aroinid me in the place 1 had left 
was filth, scurvy; and now, as Ratham pnt il, 1 could be done with this and be 
free to go as I wished. 

"Why, man, it's as easy for you as walking;-. Do you suppose 1 should hesi- 
tate? Not I." 

And he j^ave me from under his beetlinj;- brows a smile of <;-ood-will that I 
knew was but cunning show ; for it was only his eyes that smiled, his face fixed. 

"It may l)e easy for you," said I, bitterly. "You are of the other side." 

"Yes, frankly," said he, "1 am for the King, and I should not be asking 
you this if I were not. ^'et " 

"^'et?" said I, gras|)iug at any excuse. 

"I am a man of property; you, abominably poor. If I were in your i)lace 
I would think twice, for it means a hundred pounds. A hundred pounds is not 
to be had easily — in peace or war." 

"No," said I, reflecting. With (hat hundred pounds I might ask Peggy. 
What, after all, was all this question to me personally? 1 was sergeant, but the 
[)ay was poor ; had no particular prospect, whichever side won, for I ever had 
small wit at trading or saving, and T might — with that hundred pounds — I might 
start a "public" somewhere, and 1 might have the reason for asking Peggy; and 
then, besides, it meant freedom. I, who liked the woods and fields, could not 
bear being cooped. Why shouldn't I take the chance? 

"Why shouldn't you?" asked Ratham, reading my thought. 

Ah, why shouldn't T? If T were rich or influential 1 should be exchanged, 
but as it was T nn'ght rot. P.ul could I do (his (hing? My friends were wi(h 
Congress. 

"E(iually _\our friends are Ioyalis(s," Ratham said, again reading me. aUlu^ugh 
I had said nothing. 



I70 BEST THINGS FROM AMICRICAX LTrKRATURE 

Yes, that might be. Half of New York was Tory, and I had been broug'nt 
up on Ratham's land. I knew him, but not as well as he me — his cleverness, 
how hard he ever had been with his tenants, how strong he was, how determined 
for the King. 

"Well, shall I take you to Sir William?" 

The chance beckoned. 

"Yes," said I sullenly; and then gladly, "T'll take it." 

"But what," said he, eyeing me curiously, "if you betray us?" 

"I have given my word," said I — "to the devil." 

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Philip," said he. "I know you." Yes, he knew 
me, heart and soul, as he knew all men. "Come ; we'll to Sir William." 

And I followed him out onto Broadway, where the sun was bright and the 
Street gay with the crowd. Only the blackened ruins of Trinity showed what war 
had done. These gay London and New York gentlemen, these Tory ladies, were 
as contemptuous of the war with their festivities as if the land were not suffering. 

And I breathed the air. glad of my decision. I should have money, be 
free. And the service was easy — but to carry a decoy despatch ! And what, 
indeed, did it matter? Must not every man aid himself? Is not the first rule self- 
preservation ? It's a sorry struggle with the world at the best ; a sorry fight to 
keep one's probity. Everything is fair when the world is against one. 

We found Sir W^illiam writing. I felt awe of the great man, who looked me 
over as he might, in a good humor, a soldier in the ranks. 

"This is our friend?" he asked. "He is trustworthy?" 

At this I liked not my mission so well ; to be trustworthy to them meant 
being untrustworthy to the others. Therein is the whole complex definition of 
untrustworthiness. 

"Listen," said the general, as if he were convinced: "This letter is addressed 
to General Burgoyne. It reads: 'If. according to my expectations, we may suc- 
ceed in getting possession of Boston. I shall without loss of time proceed to co- 
operate with you in the defeat of the rebel army opposed to you. Clinton is suf- 
ficiently strong to amuse Washington and Putnam. I am now making demon- 
strations to the southward, which. I think, will make the full efifect in carrying our 
plan into execution.' I read it. l^ecause you wcnild better know its purport, 
which is to deceive the rebels as to our plans. It's to fall into General Putnam's 
liaiKls — do you understand ?" 

"He does. Your Excellency." Rathani said for me, when I answered, like a 
poll-parrot. "T understand." Sir William watched me a moment, and then, with 
a gesture, dismissed us. 

"Here's the money." said Ratham. outside, counting a hundred sovereigns 



CLINTON ROSS 171 

bearing King George's likeness. "You never will earn money so easily." I 
looked at the gold and at him, whom I loathed. 

Yet, with the glitter of those pieces my last compunction vanished. What 
is there about gold that the yellow of it burns into the brain? I suddenly held 
Ratham not in such poor esteem. And then I was started, thinking of these 
things. 

And exactly according to programme, I fell in with General Putnam's out- 
posts, when I was taken to the general himself, who chanced to be at that point. 
He had known me. Now I thought he would read my soul. 

"You are turned honest, Philip?" 

"I always was," said I, bridling; and, carrying on the show of the thing, 
I added, "but Your Excellency knows that I could not but hand you that dis- 
patch — although I was bribed to the contrary." 

"You are one of the men who, God helping, will win this fight," the gen- 
eral continued. I could not face his simple directness. He added, "Pll send it 
to General Washington." 

Outside, where I went as free as the air, I sickened of it all. And then, in 
the village, I saw Peggy. What she was like I can't say, save that she was, and is, 
the girl for me. 

When we had talked, 1 boasted: "I have money, Peggy. Now we can 
be married." 

"How did you come by it, John Philip?" 

I could lie glibly before General Putnam, but not before her eyes. I stam- 
mered. 

"Had it anything to do with the despatch?" said she, "anything at all, John 
Philip?" 

"Yes," said I ; and I could not lie to her, strangely enough. "Yes." 

She drew back with horror on her face. "Talk not to me — spy !" said she. 

I thought she called to me, but I could not turn back. 

Spy! The word rang in my ears. Yes, 1 was, plainly enough. She was 
right. And suddenly I detested myself. I was traitor. I could not help being 
traitor to one or the other. But which ? I felt in my pocket, where the sover- 
eigns jingled. One I took and flung far away from me. And then I paused, 
laughing. 'Twas equall\ sin to throw away good money. I searched in the road 
for the piece. But it had gone, and then I sighed at my impulsiveness. 

But there were other considerations than these of money in this affair. 
Clearly there was that of honor, which I had lost, whichever way I might turn. 
There was only one way. after all — I could not disguise it — and that was the way 
Peggy's scorn made imperative. 

"I wish to see the general," I asked of General Putnam's orderly, and in a 



172 BEST THINGS FROM AMJ-:RICAX LITERATURE 

few minutes I was again in the general's presence. He regarded nie with siu'- 
prise, I think, which I undcrrtood only too well. 

'AVhat is it, Philip?"" 

"The letter!" said I, faintly. 

"It's gone to General Washington." saiil he. his voice not unkind. 

"General." said I, "that was a decoy letter." 

"What tl'ye mean, man?" 

"It was intended to fall into your hands." 

He looked as if he thought me mad. 

"D'ye know that you risk tieath as a spy?" 

"I know it," said 1, and then I fumhloil in my pocket and countetl out the 
sovereigns. "These are properly yours. They gave them to me to carry the 
letter and to be arrested with it. One I threw away." For a moment he paused ; 
for a moment looked me over from head to toe. "It's tliis," said I. answering 
his look in kind, and finding I could face him unflinchingly. "Tm a poor man, 
General Putnam. The money — and freedom — were temptations. I have been 
prisoner with them so long I wished freedom. I was tempteil — thought I could 
carry this thing through. But I can't. General Putnam ; I have told you every- 
thing." 

I wondered what he would do then. I knew he was a decided man, to whom 
1 could talk more easily than to some of the fine gentlemen in our service. I 
tlon't believe I should have had the heart lieforc another; but to him it was differ- 
ent. He was more of our Northern farmer class — could feel my temptation. 

Now he did a queer thing, for he advanced after looking me over narrowly. 

"Philip, you have been tempted. 1 understand. 1 suspected the color of the 
despatch, which on its face was unreasonable. l)ut 1 shall have to have you put un- 
der arrest. I'm sorry, man, but I honor your confession — your attempt to atone 
for what you have done." 

I bowed my heatl, for 1 could not answer. Again I was under arrest, and for 
the moment 1 regretted it. and then regret passed. The girl who had scorned 
me would hear of this. She would know that at least 1 had made a sacrifice to 
atone for what I had done. And it seemed that my conscience approved. I had 
been unfaithful to my employer, Ratham ; but I had turned over the money, my 
l)rice, to General Putnam. The general had not mentioned — simply had taken 
it. I supposed that it was contraband of war on my confession. 

And here was 1 prisoner again, on my own confession, with death after the 
court martial before. I could not imagine it turning out dififerently. 

And so six davs passed, and on the morning of the seventh the sentinel came. 

"You are free. Philip." 

"Free?" 



CLINTON ROSS 



73 



"Yes," said he; "here's the order. The court martial decided your confes- 
sion made up for your deed. You are dismissed the service." 

I could not understand it as I stumbled out. Free! Could it be? But dis- 
missed the service in dishonor ! 

Outside was the girl Pegg-y. Would she turn from nie? 

"John Philip," said she, and her voice was timid. 

"Can you speak to me?" said I. 

"Yes, John Philip." 

"You forgive me?" 

But I had no need to talk. 

"And General Putnam gave me this for you." 

And she showed me a bag with the sovereigns Ratham had obtained for me 
— from Sir William Howe — lacking the one. 

"How did you know — " I l^egan. 

"I went to General Putnam," said she. 

"You pleaded for me?" 

"Yes," said she, softly. 

And then I took the bag of gold. 

"I must return this to Ratham. I have not earned it." 

"I like to hear you say that, John Philip." 

"Oh, if I were not a dishonored man !" 

"You have won back honor, John Philip — and me, if you will have me." 

"But — I cannot — " I began. 

"You would not have me unhappy?" she began. 

Ijut I sent the gold to Ratham. The piece that was lacking I borrowed. 

After a time came his answer : 

"Fool, you must have had a higher price." 

I did, I am free to confess — Peggy, and some approval of my own conscience, 
on a little farm in the Catskills. But among men I am known still as "Philip, the 
spy," for such a thing you cannot live down. 

But I have found tha< some self-approval and the approval of those you hold 
dearest are more than the world's. Still, 1 was cowardly. My repute has been 
hard for her. For her I was selfish. And I believe now I have been punished, 
because it was really not so much my wish for self-approval that led to my con- 
fession as the wish for her. 

And it's for my children, too, to bear. I wonder how God's way is? Yet 
I know I have not earned peace, because I shoidd have borne mv sin alone. 




ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 



174 




llIiST THINGS l'*ku.\l AMICKICAX MTICKATUKIv 175 



LE BOURGET 

BEING A KEMAKKABLK PICTUKK OF THK STOKMINd Ol'' A SUllUKB OK PARIS IN THK FRANCO- 
PRUSSIAN WAR, FROM THE "ASHES OF EMPIRE" 

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 

(Born at Brooklyn, N. Y., May 26, 1S65) 

T (layliglU it l)egan to snow again ; an hour later torrents of rain swept 
the deserted streets of the village. The roar of the wind awoke Hare- 
wood. A sickly twilight stole through the church, where, rolled in 
his blanket, he had slept under the altar among a dozen drenched 
oflficcrs. 

A cavalr}' bugler, swathed to the chin in his dripping cloak, stood 
inside the chancel, strapping his shako chain with numb fingers. He had hung 
his bugle over the arm of the crucifix, and now, as his pinched, sick face turned 
to the sunken face on the cross, he paused, hand outstretched. After a second's 
silence he crossed himself, unhooked the bugle, and, setting it stiffly to his 
shrunken lips, blew the reveille. A hundred forms stumbled up in the gloom ; 
the vibrating shock of steel filled the church. An artillery of^cer, sabre clashing 
on the stone floor, left the church on a run, pulling on his astrakhan jacket as he 
passed out into the storm. 

Harewood stood up, aching in every bone. He shook his blanket, opened 
his despatch pouch, counted the papers, snapped back the lock and yawned. 

An oflficcr beside him began to shiver and shake, a thin, lantern-jawed fellow, 
yellow with jaundice and covered from cap to boot with half dry mud. 

Somebody said: "Go to the hospital." The officer turned a ravaged face 
to Harewood and smiled. 

Outside the church the infantry bugles were sounding; their thin, strident call 
set Harewood's teeth on edge. He rolled and strapped his blanket, slung the 
despatch pouch from shoulder to hip, and stumbled out to the church door, where 
a dozen horses stood, heads hanging dejectedly in the pouring rain. A mounted 
hussar, with a lance in his stirrup boots, looked sullenly at Harewood, who called 
to him: "Whose escort is that?" 

"General Bellemare's," replied the trooper. 

"Is he going to Paris?" 

"Yes, monsieur, in half an hour." 

Harewood glanced down the dismal street. The low stone houses, shabbv 

Copyright. 1898, by Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



176 15HST THINGS l-RO.M AAIKRICAX LITICRATURE 

awd deserted, loomed ilark aiul misty tlii-out;li the stiMin ; everywhere elosed shut- 
ters, elosed doors, (iismantled street lamps, stark trees, rust\ railings on baleony 
and poreh ; everyw here the downpour, liereer w hen the wind swept the rain- 
spears, rank on rank, against the house froiUs. And now, ilown the street, 
through the roaring wind and slanting sheets oi rain, marehetl a regiment — a 
spectral regiment, gaunt drummers ahead, lining the flooded i)avement from gut- 
ter to gutter, sloppy drums vibrating like tlie death rattle ol an army. It was 
the One Hundred and Twenty-eighth of the line — the relief for the Grand Guard. 
After it. one by one. rumbled four eannon and a mitrailleuse, eseorted by Mobiles 
—the Twelfth Battalion of the Seine. 

The hussar backed his horses on to the sidewalk while the infantry were pass- 
ing. Jiarewood leaned from the church steps and touched him on the shoulder. 

"Will you deliver a letter in Paris for me?" he asked. 

The hussar nodded sulkily and said : "Are you going to stay here with the 
troops?" 

"Yes," replieil Harewood. sitting down under the porch and begimiing to 
write on a pad with a stump of red pencil. 

"Then you'll not need an answer to your letter," observed the hussar. 

Harewood raised his eyes. 

"Because," continued the trooper, with an oath, "that damned Trochu won't 
send you any cannon, and you'll all die like rats — that's why." 

Harewood thought a moment, then went on writing to Bourke : 

"The sortie was no sortie after all ; it was a raid on Le Bourget by Bellemare. 
Trochu isn't inclined to back him up, and here we are wedged into the German 
lines, able to pierce them if supported from Paris, but in a bad mess if Paris 
abandons us. Bellemare starts for Paris in half an hour to urge personally the 
direction of a supporting colunni. If the Germans come at us while he's gone I 
don't know how it will end. 

"In case of accident you will find iluplicates of all despatches in mv wash- 
stand drawer. I would go back to Paris if it were not such a shame to risk losing 
this chance to get through the hues. If worst comes to worst, I tliink I can get 
back safely. But in case you don't hear from me " 

He started to add something about Hilde, but crossed it out. Instead he 
wrote: "God bless you all ;" then scratched that out, for he had a horror of bat- 
tlefield sentiment and doleful messages "from the front." 

He raised his head and watched the storm. Swifter and swifter came the 
rain, dashing itself to smoking mist on the glistening slate roofs. .\ shutter 
hanging from one twisted hinge swung like an inn sign across the facade of a 
cottage opposite. 

He wTOte again a message to Tlilde. cheerful and optimistic — a gay pleas- 



ROBERT W. CHAMRERvS 177 

antrv untingfcd with doubt or foreboding — and signed his name, "James Hare- 
wood." 

Wlicn he had sealed and (Hrected the letter, he handed it to the hussar, say- 
ing cheerfully : 

"Thank you, comrade, for your trouble." 

The trooper thrust the letter into the breast of his tunic, pocketed the silver 
piece that Harewood held out to him, and nodded his thanks. 

A few moments later General Bellemare came out of the house next the 
church and climbed into his saddle, calling sharply to his escort, and ofT they tore 
into the teeth of the storm, the hussar's lance flying a crimson guidon that 
snapped like a wet whiplash in the tempest. 

Harewood prowled around the church, picking u]) scraps of information 
from oflficers and men, until he found that he knew quite as much about the situ- 
ation as anybody did, which was really nothing. 

He leaned against the Gothic column that supported the west choir, eating 
a bit of bread and drinking from time to time the mixture of wine and rain-water 
thai stood in a great stone font, where once the good people of Le Bourget had 
found holy water. The church swarmed with soldiers at breakfast, some eating 
ravenously, some walking about listlessly, nibbling bits of crust, some sitting 
cross-legged on the stone-slabbed floors, faces vacant, a morsel of bread untasted 
in their hands. The}- came to dip their little tni cups nito the basin where the 
wine and water stood ; one, forgetful, touched the crimson li(|uid with his fingers 
and crossed himself. Nobody laughed. 

About seven o'clock, without the slightest warning, a violent explosion shook 
the street in front of the church. Before Harewood could reach the door three 
shells fell, one after the other, and exploded in the street, sending cobblestones 
and pavements into the air. 

"Keep back !" shouted an officer. "Close the doors !" Harewood ran out 
into the street. Far away toward Pont-Iblon the smoke of the Prussian guns 
Inuig heavily in the air. 

"Are you coming back ?" bawled a soldier. "We're going to close the church 
doors." 

Harewood came back, calling out to an officer: "It's the batteries behind 
Pont Iblon!" 

Some soldiers piled pews and chairs into heaps under the stained-glass win- 
dows. On each of these heaps an officer climbed, field-glasses leveled. The 
men lay down on the floor. Many of them slept. 

The cannonade now raged furiously ; for an hour the wretched village was 
covered with bursting shells. Suddenly the tumult ceased, and Harewood, cling- 
ing to a shattered window, heard from the plain to the northward the long roll 



178 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

of volley firing. A moment later he was in the street, running beside a column 
of Mobiles. Everywhere the French bugles were ringing ; the cobblestones 
echoed with the clatter of artillery dashing past, summoned from Drancy by 
rocket signal. 

Harewood, perched astride a stucco wall, looked across the plain and saw 
dark masses of the Prussian Guard advancing in silence through the rain. The 
French shells went sailing out over the plain, dropping between the Prussian 
skirmishers and the line of battle ; the Prussian cannon were silent. 

It seemed to him that, after a while, the dark lines ceased to advance, but 
were swinging obliquelv toward Blanc-Mesnil. Presently he saw that the Ger- 
mans were actually retiring and he wondered, while the troops along th.e wall 
muttered their misgivings as the Prussian lines faded away in retreat, accom- 
panied by shotted salutes from the Fortress of the East and the unseen batteries 
of Aubervilliers. 

All day he roamed about the village, trying to form some idea of its defensive 
possibilities, and at night he returned to the church. The rain had ceased again, 
but, through the fog. a fine drizzle still descended, freezing as it fell, until the 
streets glistened with greasy slush. There were fires lighted along the main 
street ; across the red glare silhouettes passed and repassed. 

Harewood looked up at the Gothic portal of the church, all crimsoned in the 
firelight. Above it the rose-window glittered with splendid hues, dyed deep in 
the flames' glow, and still, above the rose-window, the cross of stone, dark and 
wet, absorbed the rudd)' light till it gleamed like a live cinder. Somewhere in 
the village a battalion was marching to quarters ; he heard the trample of the men, 
the short, hoarse commands of the officers, the clatter of a mitrailleuse dragged 
along by hand. 

All day he had driven thoughts of Hilde from him, but now, at midnight, 
when the lamp of life burns lowest and the eyes close, and death seems very near, 
he thought of her ; and lying down in the street beside the fire, he questioned his 
soul. At night, too, the soul, stirring in the bod\ — perhaps at the nearness of 
God — awakens conscience. , 

He had never before thought seriously of death. Its arrival to himself he 
had never pictured in concrete form. In the abstract he had often risked it, never 
fearing it, because mentally too inert, too lazy, to apply such a contingency to his 
own familiar body. 

Now, for the first time in his life, he closed his eyes and saw himself just as 
he lay, but still, wet, muddy and horribly silent. He opened his eyes and looked 
soberly at the fire. After a little he closed his eyes again, and again he saw him- 
self lying as he lay, wet, muddy, motionless, as only the dead can lie. He had 
known fear, but never before the dull foreboding that now crept into his heart. 



ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 179 

To open his eyes and see the fire was to Hve ; to shut his eyes was to reflect the 
image of death upon his closed hds. At first he disdained to shake it off — this 
mental shadow that passed across his sense. ' What if it were true? He had 
lived. It was the old selfishness stifling the sense of responsibility — his responsi- 
bility to the world, to himself, to Hilde. To Hilde? 

He sat up in his blanket and stared into the fire. Slowly the comprehension 
of his responsibility came to him, his duty, all that was due to her from him, all 
that he owed her, all that she should claim, one day, claim in life or in the life to 
come. Die?' He couldn't die — yet. There was something to do first! Who 
spoke of death ? There was too much to do ; there were matters of honor to ar- 
range first ; there was a debt to pay that neither death, nor hell, nor hope of para- 
dise could cancel. Was death about to prevent him from paying that debt? 

He was walking now, moving aimlessly to and fro under the porch of the 
ch.urch. A sentry, huddled against a column, regarded him apathetically as he 
passed out into the street. And always his thoughts ran on : 

"If I have this debt to pay, what am I doing here? What right have I to 
risk death until it is paid? And if I die — if I die — " 

His thoughts carried him no further. Hilde's pale face rose before him. 
He read terrible accusation in her eyes. And he repeated aloud again and again : 
"I must go back." For he understood now that his life was no longer his own 
to risk — that it belonged to Hilde. Nor would he ever again have the right to 
imperil his life until they had risen together from their knees, before the altar, as 
man and wife. He looked out into the mist, ruddy with the camp-fire glow. 
Would morning ever come? Why should he wait for morning? At the thought 
he caught up his pouch and blanket, rolled, strapped and adjusted them, and stole 
out into the darkness. 

Almost at once he heard somebody following him, but at first he scarcely 
noticed it. Down the main street he passed, over the slippery cobblestones, 
eyes fixed on a distant fire that marked the last bivouac in the village before the 
street ends at the ruined bridge across the Mollette. It was as he approached 
this camp-fire that he realized somebody had been following him. He paused a 
moment in the circle of firelight and turned around. Nothing stirred in the 
darkness beyond. He waited, then started on again, crossing the Lille highway 
to the line of bushes that marked the water's edge. No sentinel challenged him ; 
he waded the ford below the wrecked stone bridge, climbed the bank opposite, 
and started across a wet meadow, beyond which lay the muddy road to Paris. 
Half-way through the meadow he halted again to listen. The unseen person v/as 
wading the ford ; he could hear him in the water ; now he was climbing the bank ; 
the bu'^hes crackled ; a footstep fell on the gravel. 

Harewood waited, peering through the gloom. He could see nothing; the 



i8o lll'ST TlllW^S I'KOM AMI'KICW UTIvU ATrKl-. 

silciioo was ahs(iluU\ W'hoovor was followiui; him had stopjHHl o\\{ tlioro some- 
where ill iho (larkiK'ss, 

A httlo iiniUM\od, llarowooil tunuHl ai^aiii ami hastonoU throUi;h the iiioailow 
to [\\c hiL;hwa\. When ho roaohed the road ho oouKl soaroolv soo it, luit ho I'oh 
tho imul and j^iMxol honoath hiv foot, and started on. In a moment ho heard the 
footsteps of his follower, not hehind, now, hnt in front between him and Tafis. 
lie stopped ahrnptK and drew his re\ol\or. A minnto passed in nttor sileneo ; 
then there oame a soft footfall olose in front, a whininj:; \ oioe : 

"Monsionr !" 

"Who are \ on ?" said ilarewcnnl, sharply. 

"Tho Mouse, monsieur." 

The wrotehod oreatuio was nearly star\ed. Ihuowinnl ih'ow him into tho 
thioket beside tho road and _i;a\o him his last morsel of bread and meat. 

"Imbeoilel" ho whispered, while the Mouse gnawed tho ei-ust, s(|nattin_i; on 
liis iiuuKh haunehos, ■"thort.' ma\ bo ^'rnssian piokots anywhere alon^' the fields. 
1 tidii't \ on know it . " 

"A OS," said tho Mouse. traiupiilK ; ■"there's a pieket of Lilians just ahead." 

'JMiis was startling; now s lor 1 larowood. 

"Where?'" lu- demanded under his breath. 

■■.\bout a kilometre o\er th.it wa\ ," replied tho Mouse, jerkins; his thumb to- 
ward the southeast. lie was s^oiuj.; to add somothiui;- more when the sudden 
tingle of a horse's shod foot strikiiij.;- stones broke out in the ni_i:;iit. They 
erouehed Kw\ in tho thioket listeniiij;, Tho road was lighter now ; a L;ray sIkuIow 
passed, a horseman trailiii!; a lanoo. Others rode up, mouutod on wir\ little 
horses, all oarr\in>; tall lanoos that rattled in their saildlo boots. 

.\s llarew*>od str. lined his o\es. the moon broke out o\orhoad. a battered, 
deformed moon, aeross whose pale disk the llNiuq sand whirled like shredded 
smoke. 

A guttural voiee boi^an in r.oruian : 'A\ here ai"o tho seouts- eh ?" 

Then in the uunMilii^ht llarowotul saw v^poxor and Stauller, elad in the uiii 
form of tho earbiniors, salute the riilan ot'lioor aiul hand him a thin paokot of ]>a- 
pers. The Mouse bosiilo him trembled like a tonior at a rat hole; llarowoL>d 
ehitohed his arm and stared at tho .^loup in tho road. 

There was a brief parlox , a word oi oaution, then the Lilians whoelod their 
horses and i^alioped baek toward Taris, and the two traitorous earbiniors struck 
off aeross the meadow toward l.e luMiri^ot, thou made a demi tour and fi'tllowed 
the bank o\ tho river. \ oi\ eautionsly 1 larowood oropt out to the road when the 
iXAWo]^ of tho L'hlans had died awav. 

The Mouse stood beside him. an open elasp.knifo in his list, nostrils ipiixeriiii;- 
in the froshoninu- wind. 



Kor.i'iri' w, ciiAiMr.i'.RS 



i8i 



I larc'wood j;l;iiu-i'(I at llu- kiiilo and said: "Wlial arc you j^oiiiL;- to do? 
Cui \our \\a\ l*> I'aris? C'oiDi' hark to I ,i' r.otii\m't, xou I'ool !" 

Mall" way l>ark across tlic w iM meadow the l\h)usc asked: "And if we over- 
take Spi'.Ner ?"' 

■'Ari' \oii thi' piihhi- executioner?" said 1 larewood, sharply, "rul up that 
knih', I ti'll \(.u." 

The Mouse closed his kuil'e aud plodded on in silence. 

Alti'r a while I larew..o.l asked him ahoul I'.ourke and llilde and 'l\)lette, hut 
he kni'w little more than llarewood did, l'oi- lu' had lel't the house on tlu- ramparts 
tln' nioiihn;; after I lar^'wood's di'parlui-e, and since then had het'u follouint;- 



Morning- was hrcakiui;- as tlu'y lorded the .MolK'tte, and answerctl the sentry's 
cliallenL;e from the ruined lii-;h\\a\. It was Sundav, the l^^lh of ( )clohi'r — a 
desolate ^^unda\ in a desolate' land. Tluw hurric'd through the main streel, wlicre 
sleepN reliefs were marchin;^- to replace the ])iid<ets aloui;' the ii\i"r, and at last 
llu'N reached the church, where a L;|-oup of orfu-ers stooil on the steps in attitudes 
of deji'dion. 

"C'olonel Martin,'" cried llarewood, "send a hie of men to arrest two cap- 
tains of the carhiniers, v^pe\er and v'^taulTer. 1 idiar^e tlu-m with treason! Mere 
is m\- witness!" lie draj;\i;i(| the Monsi' u]) the sli'ps and la.] him forward. In 
half a do/en sentenci'S he told what lu' had seen; the Mouse- nodded his corroh- 
oratiou, stealiuL; cunninj;" <;lances ahout him and shut'llin_L;- his mudd\' shoi's, paitlv 
to inspii'c self coululence, parti \- hecausi' he appreciated the importance of his 
pre-senl position. 

Colonel Martin, now raid^iui; oiVicer in the \illai;e, turned ((uickl\' to llare- 
wood and saiti : 

"If I live to i^et out of this I'll have the carhiniers hefore a drum-head court 
martial. .\re" \n\\ L;oin<4 hack to I'aris?" 

"If I can," said I hu'ewood. 

"If \ou ,L;e't tlure ha\'e these e-arhinier olTu-ers ari'i'ste'd hy the lu-st patrol." 

llarewood slartiul a_L;ain to\v;u"d the ri\e'r, calling; imitalienlly for the Mouse 
to f..llow. 

The homhardmenl from the rrussian r>"uns had suddi'nlv hecome \'ioIent ; 
shells fi'll ewci yw lu're, exploiliui;- on slate roofs, in court-yards, in the uhddle of 
till' streel. 

The' Mouse, h;ilf deatl with terror, shrie'ked as ln' ran, duckin;.;- his head at 
every crash, one hand twisti'd in Iharewood's coat, oui' shie'ldiuj; his face. 

"This won't do," cried ll.newood, draj.;L;in!L;- the Mouse into ;i hallw;i\- ; 
"we've n'ot to wait until tlu' homhardment stops. Here, hreak in this door! 
Quick !" 



i82 BEST THIXGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Together tlioy forced the doov and entered. The house was dark and empty. 
Harewood clinil.cd tlie stairs, o-rt)j)cd about, unfastened the scuttle and raised him- 
self to the roof. Xorth, east and west the smoke of the Prussian guns curled up 
from the plain. In the north, vast masses of troops were moving toward Le 
Bourget, cannonaded 1)\ the Fortress of the East at long range. 

There was no chance to reach Paris ; he saw that at the first glance. Ho 
saw, too, the I'rench pickets being chased back into Le Bourget by I'hlans, and 
he heard the drunmiing of a mitrailleuse in the west end of the village, where 
columns of smoke arose from a Inirning house. Far away in the gray morning 
light the Fortress of the East towered, circled with floating mist, through which 
the sheeted flashes of the cannon pla\ed like lightning behind a thunder cloud. 

As for the miserable village of Le Bourget, it was already doomed. Black 
masses of the Prussian Guard gathered like a tempest in the north, and swept 
across the plain in three columns. From Dugney, from Pont Iblon, from Blanc- 
Mesnil, they poured down upon Le Bourget. firing as they came on. Right 
through the main street they burst, hurling back the Mobiles, sweeping the barri- 
cade, and turning again to batter down doors and w^indows, where, through the 
blinds, the soldiers of the One Hundred and Twenty-eighth of the Line were fir- 
ing frenziedly. From the slate roof where he crouched Harewood saw the Mo- 
biles give way and run. In a minute the interior of the village swarmed with 
panic-stricken soldiers. The Prussians shot them as thev ran. Shells tore 
through them, and whirled them about as winds whirl gaily-tinted Autunui leaves. 

Harewood, on the roof, was a mark now for the German riflemen. Bullet 
after bullet thwacked against the chimney behind which he clung. He waited 
his chance, then crawled along the slates and dropped into the scuttle, where the 
Mouse stood speechless with terror. 

It was time that he left. A shell, bursting in the cellar, had ignited some 
stored fagots, and the first floor of the house had already begun to burn fiercely. 

"Cofne," he said; "we must make a dash for the church." And he seized 
the Mouse, dragged him down the smoking stairs to the street door, and out over 
the cobblestones, where a group of ofificers and a couple of dozen X'oltigeurs of 
the Guard were running toward the church, pursued by Uhlans. 

Up the steps and into the dark church they stumbled pellmell, Harewood 
and the Mouse among them. They closed the great doors, bolted and barricaded 
them with benches, pews and heavy stone slabs from the floor. Already the 
Voltigeurs were firing through the stained glass across the street ; the of^cers 
climbed beside them and emptied their revolvers into the masses of Prussians 
that surged around the church in a delirium of fury. 

Harewood, looking over the shoulder of an officer, saw the Prussian pioneers 
digging through the walls of the houses across the street, saw the German sol- 



ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 183 

I Hers pour into the breach, saw them at the windows bayonetting the remnants of 
the One Hundred and Twenty-eighth, and Hinging the wounded from the win- 
dows. From house to house the pioneers opened the walls. It was necessary to 
exterminate the garrison of each separate cottage, for none of them surrendered. 

The houses that adjoined the church were swarming with Prussian infantry. 
They fired into the church windows, shouting "Hourra! Hourra ! Preussen ! No 
([uarter !"' 

The officer next to Harewood was killed outright ; two others fell back to 
the stone floor below. At the next volley five Voltigeurs were killed or wounded ; 
a blast of fiame entered the church as a grenade exploded outside a window. 

The Mouse, in an agony of fright, was running round and round the church 
like a caged creature looking for some chink or cranny of escape. A soldier 
was shot dead beside him, and the Mouse stumbled over the dead man with a 
shriek. That stumble, however, almost pitched him through the back of the 
east confessional, which, in reality, was a concealed door leading directly to the 
rear of the church. The Mouse thrust his muzzle out, saw a garden, a dis- 
mantled arbor, and no Prussians. His first instinct drove him to immediate 
tiight ; he crawled through the door on hands and knees and wriggled into the 
arbor. Then came a second instinct — to tell Harewood. Why it was that the 
Mouse crept back into the church at the risk of his miserable life nobody perhaps 
can tell. It is true that frightened animals, when unmolested, often return to a 
companion in trouble. 

Harewood was standing b}- a high stained-glass window, doing a thing that 
meant death if captured ; he was firing a rifle at the Germans. 

How he, a non-combatant, a cool-headed youth, who seldom needlessly 
risked his skin, could do such a thing, might only be explained by himself. In 
case of capture he would not have been harmed had he minded his own business ; 
but he knew very well that a swift and merciless justice was served out for those 
civilians who fired on German troops. Yet there he stood, firing with the rest — 
a mere handful left now out of the thirty-two or three officers still kept their feet, 
half a dozen soldiers were yet firing into the second division of the Prussian 
Guard Royal, numbering nearly 15,000 men. Outside the shattered windows, 
dirty fingers clutched the stone coping ; already helmeted heads bobbed up here 
and there ; inflamed Teutonic faces leered into the church ; there came the scrape 
of scaling ladders against the wall ; worse still, the rumble of artillery in the street 
close at hand. 

One of the half dozen survivors glanced around the church. It was a 
butcher's shambles. Then from the street came a shout, "Our cannon are here ! 
vSurrender !" 

"Surrender?" repeated Harewood, vacantly. Then, as he saw a wounded 



184 BICS'P TlllXt^.S l<ROM AM1-:R1CA\ MTl'.RATrkl'. 

(.-rcalurc statis^or up from the i\ooy hoUViui^ out a wliitc IiautlkcM-ohiof, he roalizcnl 
wliat 1k" had done, v'^luuucd, he stepped back to the ahar as the tiritii;- died away, 
lie saw the great doors open; he saw the streets outside, wet ami uuuldy, choked 
w ith throngs of helnieted soldiers, all staring u]> at the door ; he saw a oaimon 
limbered up and draggcil away, the mounted cauuoniers U)okmg back at the por- 
tal where three tlo/.en Im-cucIi soldiers lunl held in check 15,000 (\-rmans. 

A soldier, streaming with blood, rose frmn the lloor of the church and stum- 
bled blindlv out to the steps ; two more carricil a wounded otVicer between them 
on a chair. 

Then, as the CK-rman troops parted, and the wounded man was borne out 
and down the steps, llarewood felt a tug at his elbtnv and heard a whine: 

"Monsieur — there's a hole!" 

The next instant he stcppe^l behind the confessional, crawled through the 
dwarf door, and ran for his life. 



\ vc^>Jc/vX v\\3A^c^^^>.^,^^ 







''■^f^ 



iiEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 185 



THE CONSPIRACY 

FROM "COKI-KE AND REl'AKTEK " 

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS 

(Born at Yonkers, N. Y., May 27, 1862) 

HERE was a conspiracy in hand to embarrass the Idiot. The School- 
master and the JJibUomaniac had combined forces to give him a taste 
of his own medicine. The time had not yet arrived which showed the 
IcHot at a chsadvantage ; and the two boarders, the one proud of his 
learning, and the other not wholly unconscious of a bookish life, were 
distinctly tired of the triumphant manner in which the Idiot always 
left the breakfast-table to their invariable discomfiture. 

it was the School-master's suggestion to put their tormentor into the pit he 
had heretofore digged for them. The worthy instructor of youth had of late 
come to see that while he was still a prime favorite with his landlady, he had, 
nevertheless, suffered somewhat in her estimation because of the apparent ease 
with which the Idiot had got the better of him on all points. It was necessary, 
he thought, to rehabilitate himself, and a deep-laid plot, to whicli the Biblio- 
maniac readily lent ear, was th^ result of his rellections. They twain were to in- 
dulge in a discussion of the great story of "Robert Elsmere," which both were 
confident the Idiot had not read, and concerning which they felt assured he could 
not have an intelligent opinion if he had read it. 

So it happened upon this bright Sunday morning that as the boarders sat 
them down to partake of the usual "restful breakfast," as the Idiot termed it, the 
l>il)lionianiac observed : 

"1 have just finished reading 'Robert Elsmere.'" 

"Have you, indeed?" returned the School-master, with apparent interest. 
"I trust you profited by it?" 

"On the contrary," observed the Bibliomaniac. "My views are much un- 
settled by it." 

"I prefer the breast of the chicken, Mrs. Smithers," observed the Idiot, send- 
ing his plate back to the presiding genius of the table. "The neck of a chicken 
is graceful, but not too full of sustenance." 

"He fights shy," whispered the l^>ibliomaniac, gleefully. 

"Never mind," returned the School-master, confidently, "we'll land him yet." 

Copyright by Harper & Brothers, through whose courtesy it is here reproduced. 



i86 r.l-.ST THIXOS FR(m AMERICAN' LITERATURE 

Then Ik- cuKlcd. aloud : "I'liscttkHl b\- it? 1 fail to sec how an\- man with bcHcfs 
tliat arc at all the result of ntature eoinictious can he unsettknl by the stor}- of 
'Elsniere.' Vov my part, I believe, aiul I have alwaxs said " 

"1 never eouUl understand why the neck of a chicken shouUl be allowed on 
a respectable table anyhow," continued the Idiot, ignoring the controversy in 
which his neighbors were engaged, "unless for the purpose of showing that the 
deceased fowl met with an accidental rather than a natural death." 

"In what way does the neck demonstrate that point?" queried the lUblio- 
maniac, forgetting the conspiracy for a moment. 

"By its twist or by its length, of course," returnetl the Idiot. "A chicken 
that dies a natural death does not have its neck wrung ; nor when the head is re- 
moved by the use of a hatchet, is it likely that it wdl be cut off so close behind 
the ears that those who eat the chicken are confronted with four inches of neck." 

"\'ery entertaining, indeed," interposed the School-master; "but we are 
wandering from the point the LJibliomaniac and 1 were discussing. Is or is not 
the story of 'Robert Elsmere' unsettling to one's beliefs? Perhaps you can help 
us to decide that question." 

"Perhaps I can," returned the Idiot, "anil perhaps not. It did not unsettle 
my beliefs." 

"lUit don't you think," observed the Pibliomaniac, "that to certain minds the 
book is more or less unsettling?" 

"To that 1 can contidently say no. The certain mind knows no uncertainty," 
replied the Idiot, calmly. 

"Very pretty, indeed." said the School-master, coldly. "But what was your 
opinion of ]\Irs. Ward's handling of the subject? Do you think she was suffi- 
ciently realistic? Aiul if so, and Elsmere weakelicd under the stress of circum- 
stances, do you think — or dt)n't \ on think — the production of such a book harm- 
ful, because — being real — it must of necessity be unsettling to some minds?" 

"I prefer not to express an opinion on that subject." returned the Idiot, "be- 
cause I never read 'Robert Els — '" 

"Never read it?" ejaculated the School-master, a look of triumph in his eyes. 

"Why, everybody has reatl 'Elsmere' that pretends to have read anything," 
asserted the Bibliomaniac. 

"Of course," put in the landlady, with a scornful laugh. 

"Well. I didn't," said the Idiot, nonchalantly. "The same ground was gone 
over two years before in Burrows's great story, 'Is It, or Is it Not?' and anybody 
who ever read Clink's books on the 'Xon-Existent as Opposed to What Is,' 
knows where Burrows got his points. Burrows's story was a perfect marvel. I 
doni know how many editions it went through in England, and when it was 
translated into French by ^Madame Tournay, it simply set the French wild." 



JOHN KENDRICK BANGS 187 

"Great vSooll !"' whispered the Uihlionianiae, desperateh , "I'm afraid we've 
been barking- up the \\ron<;' tree." 

"Yini've read Chnk, I suppose?" asked the I (Hot, turuiui;- to the School- 
master. 

"Y — yes," returned the School-master, blushing deeply. 

The Idiot looked surprised, and tried to conceal a smile by sipping his cofTee 
from a spoon. 

"And Burrows ?" 

"No," returned the School-master, humbly. "I never read Burrows." 

"Well you ought to. It's a great book, and it's the one 'Rol)ert Elsmere' is 
taken from — same ideas all through, I'm told; that's why 1 didn't read 'Elsmere.' 
Waste of time, }c)U know. lUit \-ou noticed yourself, 1 sup])ose. that Clink's 
ground is the same as that covered in 'l^lsmere?' " 

"Xo; 1 only (hp])e(l lightly intt) Clink," returned the School-master, with 
some embarrassment. 

"But \ou couldn't help noticing a similarity of ideas?" insisted the Idiot, 
cahnly. 

The vSchool-master looked beseechingly at the Bibliomaniac, who would 
have been glad to ll}- to his co-eouspirator's assistance had he known how, but 
ucwv having heard of Clink, or liurrows either, for that matter, he made up his 
mind that it was best for his reputation for him to sta}- out ol the controvers}'. 

"Ver}- slight similarity, however," said the School-master, in despair. 

"Where can I find Clink's books?" put in Mr. Whitechoker, very much in- 
terested. 

The Idiot convenientl}' had his mouth full of chicken at the moment, and 't 
was to the School-master who had also read him that they all — the landlad\- in- 
cluded — looked for an answer. 

"Oh, 1 think," returned that worthy, hesitatingly — "I think you will lind 
Clink in any of the ]:)ul)lic libraries." 

"Wdiat is his full name?" persisted Mr. Whitechoker, taking out a memor- 
andum book. 

"Horace J. Clink," said the Idiot. 

"Yes; that's it — Horace J. Cliid<," echoed the School-master. "\^ery virile 
writer and a clear thinker," he added, with some nervousness. 

"What, if any, of his books would you specially recommend?" asked the 
Minister again. 

The Idiot had ])\- this time risen from the table, and was leaving the room with 
the genial gentleman who occasionalh' imbibed. 

The School-master's reply was not audible. 

"I say," said the genial gentleman to the Idiot, as they passed out into the 



i88 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

hall, 'they didn't g^et much the best of you in that matter. But, tell me. who was 
Clink, anyhow ?" 

"Never heard of him before," returnetl the Idiot. 

"And Burrows?" 

"Same as Clink." 

"Know anything about 'Elsmere?'" chuckled the genial gentleman. 

"Nothing, except that it and 'Pigs in Clover' came cnU at the same time, and 
I stuck to the Pigs." 

And the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed was so pleased at the 
plight of the School-master and of the liibliomanic that he invited the Idiot up 
to his room, where the private stock was kept for just such occasions, and they 
put in a very pleasant morning together. 



/r. 



-7^ 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 189 



AN IVORY MINIATURE 

BY ARTHUR GRISSOM 

If Karl Ihitb wrotii^lit of old with greater grace, 
Uv with a skill more marvelous and rare, 
'Twas not because inspired by one more fair, 

Or one of more divinity of face. 

Some cunning master band that thrilled to trace 
The beauty of Dubarry and \alliere, 
When VVatteau reigned and iM-ance had not a care. 

By this may well have won innnortal place. 

\\'ithin its dainty frame of flcur-de-lys, 

The crossed white lilies of the Bourbon lance, 

It seems to speak, with dreaming eyes, to me 
Of all the vanished glories of romance, 

Of clays when kings held court beneath a tree. 
And nights when Love was conqueror of France! 




^/C^UO^^g</V»>V 



lyo JJUST TIllXGS i-RU.M A.MKKICAX Ll'rLiKATL'RL: 



THE MOVEMENT CURE FOR RHEUMATISM. 



BY ROBLRT J. BURDtTTE 

(Horn at Circcnsbonui.!^!!, I'a., J 11110 ^^n, \X.\.\) 



lNl\ (la\. not a L^rcat while ai^o, Mr. M iiMk-iil) road in liis la\orilo paper 

a paraj^Tapli eopied I'rom the /'/(/, -i^v l.iiiul:cii-llischal Ihclirs W'ochciibloll , 

i'^Jl' J '^ Clennau paper, whieh is an aeeepteil anthciritv o\\ sueh points, statin;^ 

that Xhv sliiii;- ot a bee was a sine enre lor rlieuniatisni, and eitinj; 

se\eral reinarkahle inslanees in whieh people had 1 een perleetK enred 

h\ this ahnipt remedy. Mr. Middlerih ihil not stop to relleet that a 

paper with sueh a name as that would be ver\- apt to sa\ au\lhin_!;-; he onl\ 

thoui^hl ol' the rheumatie twinges that ^lappled his knees i>nee in a while and 

made lile a hur<leu to him. 

lie read the aitiele sexeral times and i>ondered o\er it. lie understtuxl that 
the stiuL^iu^ must he done seieulirieallx and thorou^hh. The lee, as he nndei" 
stood the artiele, was to he .^ripped h\ the ears and set d(W\u upon tlie rheumatie 
joint and held there until it stuu^ itsell' stiui^K'ss. Me had some misL;i\ini;s ahoul 
the matter, lie knew it would hmt. lie ha'-dly thought it eould hurt au\- worse 
than the rheumalism, and it had been so mau\ years sinee he was stnui^- hy a 
hee that he had almost I'ormitli'u what it lell like. lie had, however, a i^eueral 
feeliu;;- that it would hurl some. Hut desperate disi-ases re(|uired desperate 
remedies, and Mr. Middlerih was williu!^ to undergo an\ amount of sulVeriuj; if it 
would eure his rheumalism. 

lie eoulraeted with Master Middlerih for a limited suppK ^A hees. There 
were hees and hees, humming; and hu/./iui; ahoul in the summer air, hut Mr. 
Middlerih did not know how lo ,L;et them. I le felt, luwvever, that he eould depen<l 
upon the instinets and methods o\ boyhood, lie knew that if there was any wa\ 
ill hea\eu or earth wliereb\ the sluest bei' that e\er lifted a twd-huudred-pouud 
mail oiY the eloxer, eould be iudueed to enter a w idi'-mouthed j;lass bottle, his 
sou knew that waw 

l'\)r the small sum of one dime Master Middlerih agreed to proenre several, 
to wit: v^ix bees, a.i;e not si>eeiried ; but as Mr. Middlerih was K'fl in uneertaiut\' 
as to the raee, it was made oblii^aloiN upon the eontraetor lo haw lluee of them 
lioue\ and three humble, or in the j^enerally aeeepted \eruaeular, bumble In-es. 
.Mr. Middlerih did not tell his sou what he wauled those bees for and the bo\ 
went olT oil his mission with his lu-ad so full <.^\ astonishuu-ul that it fairl\- whirled. 



K( )\;\'A<'r j. lUKDI'/rTI': 191 

I Evcniii};- l)riii,i;s all home, and llic lasl rays of tlic (KTliiiiiii;- sun fell upon Master 
"■Midillcril) with a sliorl, wide mouthed hollle eoiiil'ortahlx populated vvilh hot, 
ill iiatmed bees, and Mr. Mi.ldlenh and a dime. The dmie and the bottle ehangcd 
hands and the l)o\ was happ\ , 

Mr. Middleiil) pnl the hotlU' in his coal ])oeke( and went into tin- house, cyc- 
iuL; evi'i\ l)o(ly he met \ciy suspieiousl \ , as though he had inadi' np his mind to 
stin- to death \\\v lirsl person that said "bee" to him. He eonlided his L;uilty 
seeret to none of his faniil\. 1 le hid his hees in his bedroom ; and as he looked at 
tluMii just befoie putting them awa\, he half wishe(l (he expiTinnMil was safely 
over. lie wished the nnpiisoned bees didiTl look so hoi an<l cross. With e.K- 
(piisile care, he MibmerL;c(l ihe bottle in a basin of water, and lei a fi'W dro])s in 
on the healed ininales, lo vmA them oil. 

At the lea table he had a -Teat li-ht. Miss Middlerib, in llie artless sini- 
plieil) of her romantit- nature, said: "I smell lu'es. Now the odor brin_i;s 
np 

Ihit her fallu-r L;lari'(l al her, and said, with su])erlluous harshness and exe- 
crable i^ranunai- : 

"I lush up! ^'on don't smell uolhin:L;-." 

Whereupon Mrs. Middlerib asked him if he had ealen anylhino- tiiat dis- 
agreed widi him, an<l .Miss .Middlerib said: "\Vli\, pa!" and l\iaster Middlerib 
snn'led as he w ( mdend. 

lu'(hime came al last, and tin' ni^liI was warm and sullr\'. I'ndc-r various 
falsi' pictenses, Mr. Middlenb sliolU'd about lln' liousi' milil evi'r\bod\' else was 
in bi'd, and then he sought his room, lie turui'd ihi' ni^ht lamp down until its 
feeble rays shone dmdv as a (K'alli li-ht. 

Mr. Middlerib .lisrobed slowly- very slowly. When at lasl he was rea<ly to 
^■o lumberini;- into his pi'aceful eoiu'li, he heavi'd ;i profound si^h, so full of 
apprehension an<l -lief that .Mrs. Middlerib, who w;is awakene<l b\ il, said if il 
}4a\'e him so nmcli pain lo come to bed, perhaps \\v had bi'tler sit up all nii^'ht. 
Mr. MiddK'rib checke<l another si,L;h, but sai.l nolhin-- and cri'pl into bi'd. After 
I\in,i; still a ivw moments \\r reaidu'd out and i;ot his bottle of bees. 

Il is not an eas\ thiii^ lo do to \uc\< one bee out of a botlleful with his Ihiger.s 
and not i^tt into trouble. The first bee Mr. Middlerib ^ot was a little brown 
lionc\' bi'e that wouldn't wei^li half an ounce if \du picked him up b\' llie ears, 
but if \(iu lifted him by tln^ hind leLjs as Mr. Middlerib did, would weij^h as much 
as the last end of a l);i\' mule. Mr. MiddK'rib could not repress a .L;roan. 

'AN'hat's the mallei- with \()U ?■" sU'cpib aski'd his wife. 

It was N'ery h.-ird for .Mr. Middlerib to sa\ : he only knew his tempi'ratnre 
had risen to eisjlit \' six all o\er and lo one hundred ;md ninet\-seven on the end 



192 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

of his thumb. He reversed the bee and pressed the v/arhke terminus of it firmly 
against his rheumatic knee. 

It didn't hurt so badly as he thought it would. 

It didn't hurt at all ! 

Then Mr. Middlerib remembered that when the honey-bee stabs a human 
foe it generally leaves its harpoon in the wound, and the invalid knew then the 
only thing the bee had to sting with was doing its work at the end of his thumb. 

He reached his arm out from under the sheet and dropped this disabled atom 
of rheumatism liniment on the carpet. Then, after a second of blank wonder, he 
l)cgan to feel around for the bottle and wished he knew what he had done with it. 

In the meantime, strange things had been going on. When he caught hold 
of the first bee, Mr. Middlerib, for reasons, drew it out in such haste that for the 
time he forgot all about the bottle and its remedial contents, and left it lying 
uncorked in the bed. In the darkness there had been a quiet but general emigra- 
tion from that bottle. The bees, their wings clogged with the water Mr. Mid- 
dlerib had poured upon them to cool and tranquillize them, were crawling aim- 
lessly about over the sheet. While Mr. Middlerib was feeling around for it, his 
ears were suddenly thrilled and his heart frozen by a wikl, piercing scream from 
his wife. 

"Murder !" she screamed, "murder ! Oh, help me ! Help! Help!" 

Mr. Middlerib sat bold upright in bed. His hair stood on end. The night 
was very warm, but he turned to ice in a minute. 

"Where, oh, where," he said, with pallid lips, as he felt all over the bed in 
frenzied haste — "where in the world are those infernal bees?" 

And a large "bumble," with a sting as pitiless as the finger of scorn, just then 
lighted between Mr. Middlerib's shoulders and went for his marrow and said 
calmly: "Here is one of them." 

And Mrs. Middlerib felt ashamed of her feeble screams when Mr. Middlerib 
threw up both arms, and, with a howl that made the windows rattle, roared : 

"Take him ofif ! Oh, land of Scott, somebody take him ofif !" 

And when a little honey-bee began tickling the sole of Mrs. Middlerib's foot 
she shrieked that the house was bewitched and immediately went into spasms. 

The household was aroused by this time. Miss Middlerib and Master Mid- 
dlerib and the servants were pouring into the room, adding to the general con- 
fusion by howling at random and asking irrelevant questions, while they gazed at 
the figure of a man a little on in years pawing fiercely at the unattainable spot 
in the middle of his back, while he danced an unnatural, weird, wicked-looking 
jig by the dim religious light of the night lamp. 

And while he danced and howled and while they gazed and shouted a navy 
l)lue wasp that Master Middlerib had put in the bottle for good measure and 



ROBERT J. BURDETTE 



193 



variety, and to keep the menagerie stirred up, had dried his legs and wings with 
a corner of the sheet, after a prehminary circle or two around the bed to get up 
his motion and settle down to a working gait, fired himself across the room, and 
to his dying day Mr. Middlerib will always believe that one of the servants mis- 
took him for a burglar and shot him. 

No one, not even Mr. Middlerib himself, could doubt that he was, at least 
for the time, most thoroughly cured of rheumatism. His own son could not have 
carried himself more lightly or with greater agility. But the cure was not per- 
manent and Mr. Middlerib does not like to talk about it. 



(y\!(rlf^ ^^ /djunrlz/MlL. 





HOWARD FIELDING (CHARLES W. HOOKE) 



194 




BEST THlxNGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 195 



A MATTER OF INSTINCT 

BY HOWARD FIELDING 

(Born at Casline, Me., Dec. 23, 1861) 

^>X^ATE was a cat and Leonard Herrick was a mouse. There had been 
some rare sport, but Herrick was of the opinion that it could not last 
much longer. He had run this way and that way, and a thousand 
times he had fancied that he was going to escape. But always the 
velvet paws with the long, sharp claws springing out of them, had 
caught him just in time. So at last he lay still, panting, not knowing 
which way to turn. 

He was in a big city, all alone. The people who rushed by him were like 
the thoughts that whirled through his brain ; they were shadows, and the ever- 
lasting train of them had no beginning nor end. He could not distinguish the 
real men and women whom he saw from those whom he merely remembered. 
Now and again there appeared in the throng the faces of the dead ; he did not 
mind those, but there were others that he shrank from. 

He stood with his back against the iron fence in front of Trinity Church. 
There was just light enough in the western sky to give the pile of stone a shadow 
which fell upon hurrying thousands who did not notice it. 

Herrick's hands were in his pockets. He crumpled a crackling piece of 
paper which meant that he could live several days longer, if he cared to do so. 
As to a more extended future, he could not picture it. All the lines of his life 
seemed to end in a knot which could by no means be untied, but must merely 
be dropped. He remembered that there were miracles, but he could not think 
of one to wish for. 

From three o'clock till four the crowd in that part of Broadway is rich and 
prosperous ; from four till five it boasts of wealthy connections and takes a strong 
interest in life ; after five, it loses caste rapidly, and by six it is a lot of weary 
people going home to supper. Herrick felt the degeneracy of the throng without 
really seeing it. If a whole street full of people could get shabby in an hour, was 
it any wonder that he had done it in five years ? 

He crossed Broadway and walked down Wall Street, slowly and with hesita- 
tion, for he had no errand. A voice cried: "Cab, sir!" almost in his ear. He 
turned and looked up at the man on the box. 

"Is it possible," he said to himself, "that I still look like a gentleman?" 



196 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

He felt toward the cabman as toward one who had given him a helping hand. 
Why not pay the debt ? To do so would cost him only a day of his life. He had 
a five-dollar bill in his pocket. 

"Yes," he said ; "take me up to the Fifth Avenue Hotel." 

It was the first place that had come into his mind. He got into the cab and 
snapped the door. The cushioned seat and the comfortable support for his head 
were very refreshing. A fancy came to him that he would dine decently and then 
go to a theatre. The extravagance would be trifling, for it was really of small 
importance whether he starved to death on Sunday or the following Wednesday. 
He was in a mood to make a jest of it all. 

A strong glare from an electric light struck down into the carriage, and made 
visible to him a package in brown paper that looked as if it might be a sandwich. 
The object protruded from under the seat. He thought it must be the cabman's 
supper which had been hidden in some small locker and had fallen upon the floor. 
The idea that the food should be spoiled was disagreeable to Herrick, and so he 
picked up the little brown bundle. 

It was smaller than he had supposed, and it did not feel like bread. But had 
it been food, and he at the last pang of starvation, the touch of it would not have 
sent such a thrill through all his frame. 

He knew that the contents of that package was money. It felt like a mass 
of bills, folded ; awkwardly wrapped up and fastened with elastic bands. Through 
the brown covering Herrick could feel the crispness of the government paper. 
The amount might be a poor man's monthly wages, or a rich man's profit on a 
great transaction. 

As to his own conduct in this matter, Herrick had no doubt whatever. Fate 
had thrown this money into his hands, and fate might take it away, but not if he 
could hold on tightly enough. His fingers trembled as he picked at the elastic 
bands. Suddenly, and without his knowing why, the rubber strings vanished 
with a loud snap that startled him ; and the package sprang open on his knees. 
He caught a flash of green color, and then the cab rolled out of light into shadow. 

It seemed a long time before another light struck in upon him. At the 
moment when it did so he saw a face close to the cab door and he dodged back, 
covering the bills with his hands. But the chance passenger on the street saw 
nothing ; he was thinking of his own afifairs, no doubt, and had no inkling of the 
strange thing that passed so close to his eyes. 

Herrick was himself again in a moment, and he bent forward, eagerly 
scanning the bills in his hands and counting them feverishly. Tliere were forty 
of them, and each was of the denomination of one thousand. 

Throughout the latter period of the young man's misfortunes, he had had 
substantially but one wish — to rest. Rest has many forms, suited to a vast 



HOWARD FIELDING 197 

variety of individual tastes. To Herrick in his day-dreams it had always taken 
the form of travel without care. All paths lie open for a man who has forty 
thousand dollars, and there is no reason why care should sit behind him as he rides. 

Herrick had only the most shadowy thought for the person who had lost 
this money. He did not even speculate upon the manner of its loss. It had 
passed into the control of one who needed it, and that was enough. 

He disposed the notes in his pockets, in the best interests of comfort and 
safety. Then he folded up the brown paper and pocketed that also, with a dim 
consciousness that if it were left in the cab it might get the driver into trouble. 
The fellow was honest, no doubt, and Herrick did not wish that he should suffer 
a wrong. He preferred to keep the wrapper himself and take the risk until he 
could find some means of disposing of it that should be safer than chrowing it 
out of the cab window. 

How he himself should leave the cab was a question which concerned him 
nearly. He did not wish to confront the driver again, for there might be an 
investigation and a question of identification might arise, in which case it would 
be well to have the man know as little as possible of Herrick's personal appear- 
ance. He reflected with satisfaction that the spot on Wall Street where he had 
entered the carriage had been rather dark. 

The cab stopped suddenly, its path being blocked by a tangle of vehicles. 
Herrick softly put his hand upon the catch of the door. It yielded noiselessly ; 
the door swung open. 

Herrick stepped out. Turning back for an instant he perceived the cabman 
sitting upon his box in entire unconsciousness of the fraud that was being prac- 
tised upon him. He was a poor man and doubtless worked hard for all the money 
that he received. Still, it was reckless to attract his attention again ; especially 
so, after having left the cab in that strange manner. 

There was a way to the sidewalk through the press of vehicles. Herrick saw 
it from the corner of his eye, and was about to take advantage of it. Instead, to 
his surprise, he found himself turning toward the cabman, and immediately he 
heard his own voice saying : 

"I have decided to get out here. How much do I owe vou?" 

The cabman named his price and Herrick paid him with the five dollar bill 
which had been the sum of his wealth, and the end of it, so far as he could see, 
so short a time before. He counted his change carefully, remembering tkat he 
would probably have to wait until the next day before he could break one of the 
thousands. Enough remained to him from the bill for a supper, a bed and a 
breakfast. 

When he had found a restaurant he ordered a meal and ate it with relish. 
It was enchanted food. It was the fare of an Atlantic liner, the delicacies of Euro- 



198 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

pean hotels and the fruits of the tropics. His drink was the wine of all the cafes in 
the world where there are lights and laughter and pretty women. 

He cared little for his bed. It would be no more than a place where he 
might lie and think of the future. It was many a night since he had really slept. 
Certainly with so much upon his mind he would not sleep this night even if he 
should try. So when he had been shown to his room in a hotel he piled his 
pillows against the headboard of the bed and reclined upon them fully dressed. 
He was very happy. No (juestion of right or wrong in what he had done or what 
he expected to do, came to torment him. For a long time he had borne his life 
like a tremendous burden. It had suddenly slipped from his shoulders, leaving 
liis natural powers benumbed. 

In the midst of his first vision of a new life he was aroused by a knocking at 
the door. He started up ; his legs would hardly support him ; he had no voice 
with which to ask who was there. But one explanation was possible ; he must 
have been watched by the police. 

He tottered to the door and gave utterance to a hoarse, inarticulate sound. 

"Eight o'clock, sir," cried a voice without. "You asked to be called, sir." 

He rushed to the window and flung open the shutters. Day stream.ed in, 
strong and beautiful. The gas flame paled. He knew that he had slept as not 
before in years. In the mysterious depths of his life he felt a new strength stirring, 
but it was only nascent as yet. 

A bath and a breakfast revived him still more. He felt the exhilaration of 
a busy day upon which he was entering. He scanned the papers, but so far as he 
could see they had no news of the money that had been lost. He was not con- 
scious of any excitement in searching for that news. The fear of detection had 
quite left him. Of all stolen goods money is the hardest to recover. 

Presently he found himself riding downtown in an elevated railroad train. 
He was going to a steamship ofBce to arrange for his journey ; then to a banker's 
for a traveler's check book. 

His pockets were bulging with money, but there was something in one of 
them that he could not remember to have put there. He pulled it out and found 
it to be the brown paper wrapper that had inclosed the money. As he held it in 
his hand it was concealed by his newspaper. No fellow-passenger could see it ; 
and that was doubly fortunate because in plain sight upon the paper was a name 
and address: "Herbert L. Graham, 40 Wall street." 

The train was just stopping at Rector street. That was the station nearest 
to the steamship ofBce. Thrusting the brown paper back into his pocket he left 
the car and went with the throng down to the street. He was thinking about the 
accommodations he would choose on the steamer. He continued to think of that 
and kindred subjects, yet he turned north on Broadway instead of south. Pres- 



HOWARD FIELDING 



199 



ently he was conscious of asking an elevator boy in a big building if he knew 
where Mr. Graham's office was. 

Mr. Graham happened to be in his outer office when Herrick entered. He 
was pouring a story into the ear of another gray-haired Wall Street man and 
Herrick heard a few words of it — how Mr. Graham was sure he didn't do this and 
positive he didn't do that ; in fact, like other men in the same situation, he was 
able to prove that the obvious truth was an impossibility. 

"I have found the money that you lost," said Herrick. "Here it is." 

"Zion!" cried the banker, clutching the bills in his fingers. "My dear fellow, 
tell me all about it." 

"There's nothing to tell," replied the young man. "I merely found it in the 
cab." 

Mr. Graham eyed him a moment in surprise. 

"You take it coolly," he said. 

"I couldn't take it at all," responded Herrick with a feeble smile. "I don't 
know why. It was instinct, I suppose. My ancestors must have been honest 
men." 

"Upon my word, you must take one of these notes," said the banker. "I've 
offered it in an ad. and " 

"I can't do it," said Herrick. "I don't feel it to be right." 

"But, my dear boy!" exclaimed the old man, kindly. "I must do something 
for you. I want to ; believe me. At least come back and take lunch with me. 
Shall we say one o'clock?" 

"It will give me great pleasure," said Herrick; and, bowing, he turned away 
and walked out of the office. 




200 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND 

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 

(Born at Hartford, Conn., Oct. 8, 1S33) 

Oh ! long are years of waiting, when lovers' hearts are bound 
By words that hold in life and death, and last the half-world round ; 
Long, long for him who wanders far and strives with all his main, 
But crueller yet for her who bides at home and hides her pain ! — 
And lone are the homes of New England. 

'Twas in the mellow Sunmier I heard her sweet reply ; 
'^he barefoot lads and lasses a-berrying went by ; 
The locust dinned amid the trees ; the fields were high with corn ; 
The white-sailed clouds against the sky like ships were onward borne- 
And blue are the skies of New England. 

Her lips were like the raspberries ; her cheek was soft and fair, 
And little breezes stopped to lift the tangle of her hair ; 
A light was in her hazel eyes, and she was nothing loath 
To hear the words her lover spoke, and pledged me there her troth— 
And true is the word of New England. 

When September brought the golden-rod, and maples burned like fire, 
And bluer than in August rose the village smoke and higher, 
And large and red among the stacks the ripened pumpkins shone, 
One hour, in which to say farewell, was left to us alone — 
And sweet are the lanes of New England. 

We loved each other truly ! Hard, hard it was to part ; 
But my ring was on her finger, ai J her hair lay next my heart, 
'"Tis but a year, my darling," I said ; "in one short year. 
When my Western home is ready, I shall seek my Katie here — " 
And brave is the hope of New England. 

I went to gain a home for her. and in the Golden State 

With head and hand I planr :d and toiled, and early worked and late; 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 201 

But luck was all against me, and sickness on me lay, 
And ere I got my strength again 'twas many a weary day — • 
And long are the thoughts of New England. 

And many a day, and many a month, and thrice the rolling year, 
I bravely strove, and still the goal seemed never yet more near. 
My Katie's letters told me that she kept her promise true. 
But now, for very hopelessness, my own to her were few — 
And stern is the pride of New England. 

But still she trusted me, though sick with hope deferred ; 
No more among the village choir her voice was sweetest heard ; 
For when the wild northeaster of the fourth long Winter blew. 
So thin her frame with pining, the cold wind pierced her through — 
And chill are the blasts of New England. 

At last my fortunes bettered, on the far Pacific shore, 
And I thought to see old Windham and my patient love once more ; 
When a kinsman's letter reached me: "Come at once, or come too late! 
Your Katie's strength is failing ; if you love her, do not wait — 
Come back to the elms of New England." 

Oh, it wrung my heart with sorrow ! I left all else behind. 
And straight for dear New England I speeded like the wind. 
The day and night were blended till I reached my boyhood's home, 
And the old clififs seemed to mock me that I had not sooner come — 
And gray are the rocks of New England. 

I could not think 'twas Katie who sat before me there 
Reading her Bible — 'twas my gift — and pillowed in her chair. 
A ring, with all my letters, lay on a little stand — 
She could no longer wear it, so frail her poor, white hand ! — 
But strong is the love of New England. 

Her hair had lost its tangle and was parted off her brow ; 
She used to be a joyous girl ; but seemed an angel now. 
Heaven's darling, mine no longer ; yet in her hazel eyes 
The same dear love-light glistened, as she soothed my bitter cries — 
And pure is the faith of New England. 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

A month I watched her dying, pale, pale as any rose 
That drops its petals one by one and sweetens as it goes. 
My life was darkened when at last her large eyes closed in death. 
And I heard my own name whispered as she drew her parting breath- 
Still, still was the heart of New England. 

It was a woful funeral the coming Sabbath day ; 
We bore her to the barren hill on which the graveyard lay, 
And when the narrow grave was filled, and what we might was done, 
Of all the stricken group around I was the loneliest one — 
And drear are the hills of New England. 

I gazed upon the stunted pines, the bleak November sky, 
And knew that buried deep with her my heart henceforth would lie ; 
And waking in the solemn nights my thoughts still thither go 
To Katie, lying in her grave beneath the Winter snow — 
And cold are the snows of New England. 



-^ 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 203 



A NEW ENGLAND SUNDAY 

BY HENRY WARD BEECHER 

(Born at Litchfield, Conn., June 24, 1813; died at Brooklyn, N. Y., March 8, 1887) 

IME waits for no man, and least of all for story writers. Our readers 
must move six years forward at a step, and rest for one Sunday in 
Norwood, where traveling on Sunday is yet against the law. 

It is worth all the inconveniences arising from the occasional over- 
action of New England Sabbath observance to obtain the full flavor 
of a New England Sunday. But, for this, one should have been born 
there ; should have found Sunday already waiting for him, and accepted it with 
implicit and absolute conviction, as if it were a law of Nature, in the same way 
that night and day. Summer and Winter, are parts of Nature. He should have 
been brought up by parents who had done the same thing, as they were by parents 
even more strict, if that were possible ; until not religious persons peculiarly, but 
everybody, not churches alone, but society itself and all its population — those who 
broke it as much as those who kept it — were stained through with the color of 
Sunday ; nay, until Nature had adopted it, and laid its commands on all birds and 
beasts, on the sun and winds, and upon the whole atmosphere ; so that, without 
much imagination, one might imagine in a genuine New England Sunday of the 
Connecticut river valley stamp that God was still on that day resting from all the 
work which he had created and made, and that all his work rested with, him. 

Over all the town rested the Lord's peace. The saw was ripping away yes- 
terday in the carpenter's shop, and the hammer was noisy enough ; to-day there 
is not a sign, of life there. The anvil makes no music to-day. Tommy Taft's 
buckets and barrels give forth no hollow, thumping sound. The mill is silent : 
only the brook continues noisy. Listen ! In yonder pine-woods, what a cawing 
of crows ! Like an echo in a wood still more remote, other crows are answering. 
But even a crow's throat to-day is musical. Do they think, because they have 
black coats on, that they are parsons, and have a right to play pulpit with all the 
pine-trees ? Nay, the birds will not have any such monopoly : they are all sing- 
ing, and singing all together ; and no one cares whether his song rushes across 
another's or not. Larks and robins, blackbirds and orioles, sparrows and blue- 
birds, mocking catbirds and wrens, were furrowing the air with such mixtures as 
no other day but Sunday, when all artificial and human sounds cease, could ever 
hear. Every now and then, a bobolink seemed impressed with the duty of bring- 




HENRY WARD BEECHER 



204 



lll^NRY WARD r,lCl<:ClIKR 205 

ing- these jangling- birds into more regularity; and, like a country singing-master, 
ho Hew down the ranks, singing all the parts himself in snatches, as if to stimulate 
and helj) the lagg;ards. In vain. Sunday is the birds' day, and they will have 
their own democratic worship. 

There was no sound in the village street. Look cither way, not a vehicle, 
not a human being. The smoke rose up soberly and quietly, as if it said, "It is 
Smiday." The leaves on the great elms hung motionless, glittering in dew, 
as if they too, like the people who dwelt under their shadow, were waiting for the 
bell to ring for meeting. P)ees sung and tlew as usual ; but honey-bees have a 
Sunday way with them all the week, and coidd scarcely change for the better 
on the seventh day. 

lUit, oh, the sun ! It had sent before, and cleared every stain out of the sky. 
The blue heaven was not dim and low as on secular days, but curved and deep, 
as if on Sunday it shook ofif all encuml)rance which during the week had lowered 
and flattened it, and sprang back to the arch and synmictry of a dome. All 
ordinary sounds caught the spirit of the day. The shutting of a door sounded 
twice as far as usual. The rattle of a bucket in a neighbor's yard, no longer 
mixed with heterogeneous noises, seemed a new sound. The hens went silently 
about, and roosters crowed in psalm-tunes. And, when the first bell rang. Na- 
ture seemed overjoyed to find something that it might do without breaking Sun- 
da\-, and rolled the sound over and over, and pushed it through the air, and raced 
with it over field and hill twice as far as on week-days. There were no less than 
seven steeples in sight from the belfry : and the sexton said, "On still Sundays 
Tve heard the bell, at one time and another, when the day was fair, and the air 
moving in the right way, from every one of them steeples; and 1 guess likely 
they've all heard our'n." 

"Come, Rose," said Agate Rissell, at an even earlier hour than when Rose 
usually awakened. — "come. Rose, it is the Sabbath. We must not be late Sun- 
day morning of all days in the week. It is the Lord's day." 

There was little preparation recjuired for the day. Saturday night, in some 
parts of New England, was considered almost as sacred as Sunday itself. After 
sundown on Saturday night, no play, and no work, except such as is immediately 
preparatory to the Sabbath, were deemed becoming in good Christians. The 
clothes had been laid out the night before. Nothing was forgotten. 'Phe best 
frock was ready; (he hose and shoes were waiting. Every articl(;,of linen, every 
ruflle and ribbon, were selected on Saturday night. Every one in the house 
walked mildly ; every one spoke in a low tone: yet all were cheerful. The mother 
had on her kindliest face, and nobody laughed ; but everybody made it up in 
smiling. The nurse smiled, and the children held on to keep down a giggle 
within the lawful bounds of a smile ; and the doctor looked rounder and calmer 



2o6 BEST THIXGS FROM AMKRICAX LITERATURE 

tlian ever; and the dog tiappcd his tail on the floor with a softened sonnd, as if he 
had fresh wrapped it in hair for that ver\- day. Annt Toodie, the eook (so the 
eliikh-en had ehanged ]\Irs. Sarah Gooil's name), was blaeker tlian ever and 
shinier than ever, and the eotifee better, and the ereani rieher, and the broiled 
ehiekens jneier and more tender, and the biseuit whiter, and the cornbread more 
brittle and sweet. 

When the good tloetor read the Scriptnres at family prayer, the infection of 
silence had snbdued everything except the clock. Out of the witle hall could be 
hearil in the stillness the oUl clock, that now lifted up its voice with unwonted 
emjihasis, as if, unnoticed through the bustling week, Sunday was it;; vantage- 
ground to proclaim to mortals the swift flight of time ; and, if the old pedant 
performed the task with something of an ostentatious precision, it was because 
in that house nothing else put on official airs, and the clock felt the responsibility 
of doing it for the whole mansion. 

And now came mother and catechism ; for Mrs. Wentw^orth followed the 
old custom, and declared that no child of hers should grow up without catechism. 
Secretly, the doctor was tpiite willing; though openly he i)layed off upon the 
practice a world of gootl-natured discouragement, and tleclared that there should 
be an opposition set up — a catechism of nature, with natural laws for decrees, 
and seasons for Providence, and flowers for graces. The younger children were 
taught in simple catechism : l)ut Rose, having reachetl the mature age of twelve, 
was now manifesting her power over the Westminster Shorter Catechism ; and 
as it was simply an achievement of memory, and not o\ the understanding, she had 
the book at great advantage, and soon subduetl every t|uestion and answer in it. 
As much as possible, the doctor was kept aloof on such occasions. His grave 
questions were not to edification ; and often they caused Rose to stumble, and 
brought down sorely the exultation with which she rolled forth, "They that are ef- 
fectually called do in this life partake of justification, adoption, sanctification, and 
the several benefits which in this life do either accompany or tiow from theni." 

"What do those words mean. Rose?" 

"Which words, pa?" 

"Adoption, sanctification, and justification." 

Rose hesitated, and looked at her mother for rescue. 

"Doctor, whv do you trouble the child? C^f cinn-se, she don't know yet all 
the meaning: but that will come to her when she grows older." 

"You make a nest of her memory, then, and put wtM'ds there, like eggs, for 
future hatching?" 

"Yes. that is it exactly. Birds do not hatch their eggs the minute they lay 
them : thev wait." 



HENRY WARD JJEECllER 207 

"Layinn;- e^^s at twelve to be hatched at twenty is subjcctinj:^ them to some 
risk, is it not ?" 

"It mijj^lit l)e so with cij^-j^s, but not with catechism. That will keep, without 
spoi]int,^ a hundred years." 

"liecause it is so dry?" 

"Ik'cause it is so jji'ood. P>ut do, dear husband, i^o away, and not put no- 
tions in the children's heads. It's hard enout^h alrea<ly to get them through their 
tasks. Here's poor Arthur, who has been two Sundays on one (|uestion, and 
has not got it yet." 

Artlun-, aforesaid, was sharp and bright in anything addressed to his reason: 
hut he had no verbal memory, and he was therefore wading jiainfully through 
tlie catechism like a man in a deep, muddy road; with this difference, that the 
nian carries tocj much clay with him, while nothing stuck to poor Arthur. Great 
was the lad's ])ride and exultation (jii a f(jrmer occasion when his mother ad- 
vanced him fr(jm the Smaller Catechism to the dignity of the Westminster 
Catechisrn. He c(juld hardly wait for Sunday to begin his conquests. He was 
never known after the first Sunday to show any further impatience. He had been 
four weeks in reaching the fourth cjuestion ; and two weeks already had he laid be- 
fore that luminous answer, beating on it like a ship too deeply laden, and unable 
to cross the bar. 

"What is God, Arthur?" said his mother. 

"God is — is a — God is — and God — God is a " 

Having got safely so far, the mother suggests "spirit"; at which he gasps 
eagerly, "God is a spirit." 

"Infinite," says the mother. 

"Infinite," says Arthur. 

And then blushing, and twisting in his chair, he seemed unable to extract 
anything more. 

"Eternal," says the mother. 

"Eternal," says the boy. 

"Well, go on. 'God is a spirit, infinite, eternal': what else?" 

"God is a spirit, eternal, infinite: what else?" 

"Nonsense!" says the startled mother. 

"Nonsense!" goes on the boy, supposing it to be a part of the regular 
answer. 

"Arthur, stop! What work you are making!" 

To stop was the very exercise in catechism at which he was most proficient ; 
and he stopped so fully and firmly, that nothing more could l)e got out of him 
or into him during the exercise. But his sorrow soon fled; for the second bell 
had rung, and it was just time to walk ; and "everybody was going," the servant 



2o8 BEST THIXGS FROM AMKRICAX IJTKRATl'RE 

reported. The doctor had been called away ; and his wife and the children moved 
down the yard — Rose with demure propriety. Tind Arthur and his eight -year-old 
brother, Charles, with less piety manifest in deportment, but. on the whole, with 
decent demeanor. The beauty of the day. the genial season of the year, brought 
forth every one — old men and their feebler old wives, young- and hearty men and 
their plump and ruddy companions. Young men ami girls and children, thick 
as punctuation points in Hebrew text, filled the street. In a low voice, they 
spoke to each other in single sentences. 

******* 

There was something striking in the outflow of people into the street that till 
now ha(.l seemed utterly deserted. There wa^ no fevered hurry, no negligent or 
poorly-dressed people. Every family came in groups, old folks and young chil- 
dren ; and every member blossomed forth in his best apparel, like a rose-bush 
in June. Do you know that man in a silk hat and new black coat ? Probably 
it is some stranger. Xo: it is the carpenter. Mr. r>aggs. who was racing about 
yesterday with his sleeves rolled up. and a dust-and-business look in his face. 
I knew yoti would not know him. Adams Gardner, the blacksmith — does he 
not look every inch a Judge, now that he is clean-washed, shaved, and dressed? 
His eyes are as bright as the sparks that fly from his anvil. 

Are not the folks proud of their children ? See what groups of them ! How 
ruddy and plump are most ! Some are roguish, and cut clandestine capers at 
every chance. Others seem like wax figures, so perfectly proper are they. Little 
hands go slyly through the pickets to pluck a tempting flower. Other hands 
carry hymn-books or Bibles. But carry what they mav, dressed as each parent 
can afford, is there anything the sun shines upon more beautiful than these 
troops of Sunday children? 

The old bell had it all its own way up in the steeple. It was the licensed 
noise of the day. In a long shed behind the church stootl a score and half-score 
of wagons and chaises and carryalls — the horses already beginning the forenoon's 
work of stamping, and whisking the flies. More were coming. Hiram Beers 
had "hitched up." and brought two loads with his new hack : and now. having 
secured the team, he stood with a few admiring young fellows about him. re- 
marking on the people as they came up. 

"There's Trowbridge: he'll git asleep afore the first prayer's over. I don't 
b'lieve he's heerd a sermon in ten years. I've seen him asleep standin' up in 
singin'. 

"Here comes Deacon Marble! Smart old feller, ain't he? Wouldn't think 
it jest to look at him L Face looks like an ear of last summer's sweet-corn — all 
dried up ; but I tell ye he's got the juice in him yit ! Avmt Polly'.s gittin' old, ain't 
she? They say she can't walk half the time; lost the use of her limbs: but it's 



HENRY WARD BEECHER 209 

all gone to her tongue. That's as good as a razor, and a sight better'n mine, for 
it never needs sharpenin'. 

"Stand away, boys ! ther's 'Biah Cathcart. Good horses ; not fast, but 
mighty strong — just like the owner." 

And with that Hiram touched his new Sunday hat to Mrs. Cathcart and 
Alice ; and, as he took the horses by the bits, he dropped his head, and gave the 
Cathcart boys a look of such awful solemnity, all except one eye, that they lost 
their sobriety. Barton alone remained sober as a judge. 

"Here comes 'Dot-and-Go-One' and his wife. They're my kind o' Chris- 
tians. She is a saint, at any rate. 

"How is it with you. Tommy Taft?" 

"Fair to middlin', thankee. Such weather would make a handspike blossom, 
Hiram." 

"Don't you think that's a leetlc strong. Tommy, for Sunday? P'r'aps you 
mean afore it's cut?" 

"Sartin: that's what I mean. But you mustn't stop me, Hiram. Parson 
Duel] '11 be lookin' for me. He never begins till I git there." 

"You mean you always git there 'fore he begins?" 

Next Hiram's prying eyes saw Mr. Turfmould, the sexton and undertaker, 
who seemed to be in a pensive meditation upon all the dead that he ever buried. 
He looked upon men in a mild and pitying manner, as if he forgave them for 
being in good health. You could not help feeling that he gazed upon you with 
a professional eye, and saw just how you would look in the condition which was 
to him the most interesting period of a man's earthly state. He walked with a 
soft tread, as if he was always at a funeral ; and, when he shook your hand, his 
left hand followed his right, as if he were about beginning to lay you out. 
He was one of the few men absorbed by his business, and who unconsciously 
measured all things from its standpoint. 

"Good morning, Mr. Turfmould! How's your health? How's business 
with you?" 

"Good, the Lord be praised ! I've no reason to complain." 

And he glided silently and smoothly into the church. 

"There comes Judge Bacon, white and ugly," said the critical Hiram. 
"I wonder what he comes to meetin' for. Lord knows he needs it — sly, slippery 
old sinner ! Face's as white as a lily : his heart's as black as a chimney-flue afore 
it's cleaned. He'll get his flue burned out if he don't repent, that's certain. He 
don't believe the Bible: they say he don't believe in God. Wal, I guess it's 
])retty even between 'em. Shouldn't wonder if God didn't believe in him, 
neither." 

Hiram's prejudices were perhaps a little too severe. The Judge was very 



210 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

selfish, but not otherwise bad. He would not do a positively bad deed if he could 
help it ; but he neglected to do a great many good ones which other men with 
warm hearts would have done. But he made up in manner whatever he lacked in 
feeling. Dressed with unexceptionable propriety, his whole bearing was digni- 
fied and kind. No man in the village spoke more musically and gently ; no one 
met you with a greater cordiality. His expressions of kind wishes, and his anx- 
iety to serve you, needed only a single instance of hearty fulfillment to make 
Judge Bacon seem sincerely and unusually kind. But those who had most to do 
with him found that he was cold and selfish at heart, inflexible and unfeeling when 
seeking his rights or interests ; and his selfishness was the more ghastly as it 
clothed itself in the language and manners of gentle good-will. 

"He talks to you," said Hiram, "just as Black Sam lathers you. A kind 
of smooth rubbing goes on, and you feel soft and satisfied with yourself, and sort 
o' lean to him, when he takes you by the nose, and shaves and shaves and shaves; 
and it's so smooth that you don't feel the razor. But I tell you, when you git 
away, your skin smarts. You've been shaved. 

"Here come the Bages and the Weekses, and a whole raft from Hardscrab- 
ble," said Hiram, as five or six one-horse wagons drove up. At a glance, one 
could see that these were farmers who lived to work. They were spare in figure, 
brown in complexion — everything worn off but bone and muscle — like ships with 
iron masts and wire rigging. They drove little nubbins of horses, tough and 
rough, that had never felt a blanket in Winter, or known a leisure day in 
Summer. 

"Them fellers," said Hiram, "is just like stones. I don't believe there's any 
blood or innards in 'em more'n in a crowbar. They work early, and work aH 
day, and in the night, and keep workin' ; and never seem to get tired except 
Sunday, when they've nothin' to do. You know, when Fat Porter was buried, 
they couldn't get him into the hearse, and had to carry him with poles ; and 
Weeks was one of the bearers. And they had a pretty heavy time of it. nigh 
about three hours, what with liftin' and fixin' him at the house, and fetchin' him 
to the church door, and then carry in' him to the graveyard ; and Weeks said he 
hadn't enjoyed a Sunday so much he couldn't tell when. 

" 'Hiram,' sez he, 'I should like Sunday as well as week-days if I could 
work on it ; but I git awful tired doin' nothin'.' 

"They say," said Hiram, "that they never do exactly die up in Hardscrabble. 
They work up and up, and grow thinner and thinner like a knife-blade, till they 
git so small, that some day they accidentally git misplaced or dropped, and 
nobody misses 'em : so that they die ofif in a general way like pins, without any 
one of 'em making a particular fuss about it. But I guess that ain't so," added 
Hiram with a grave air, as if fearing that he might mislead the young folks about 



HENRY WARD BEECHER 211 

him. Then, with demure authority, he said, "Boys, go in: the bell's done tollin', 
and meetin's goin' to begin. Go in, and don't make a noise ; and see you tell 
me where the text is. I've got to look after these horses, or they'll get 
mixed up." 

This remark was called forth by a squeal and a rattle and backing of wagons, 
which showed that mischief was already brewing. 

Having got the people all safely into church, Hiram bestowed his attention to 
the horses. The whole green was lined with horses. Every hitching-post, and 
the railing along the sidewalk and at the fronts of the stores were closely oc- 
cupied. 

Seeing Pete leaning on Dr. Wentworth's gate, Hiram beckoned him over, 
and employed him in his general tour of inspection, as a bishop might employ 
his chaplain. Here the reins had been pulled under a horse's feet ; next a horse 
had got his bridle ofT ; another had backed and filled till the wagon-wheels were 
cramped ; and at each position Hiram issued orders to Pete, who good-naturedly, 
and as a matter indisputable, did as he was ordered. If Hiram had told Pete to 
shoulder one of the horses, he would have made the attempt. 

It was curious to see Pete's superiority to Hiram in the matter of dogs. In 
several wagons lay the master's dog; and Hiram was not permitted to approach 
without dispute : but there was not a dog, big or little, cross or affectionate, that 
did not own the mysterious power that Pete had over animals. Even dogs in 
whom a sound conscience was bottomed on an ugly temper practised a surly 
submission to Pete's familiarity. 

It was nearly twelve o'clock when Dr. Wentworth, returning from his 
round of visits, found Hiram sitting on the fence, his labors over, and waiting for 
Dr. Buell to finish. 

"Not in church, Hiram? I'm afraid you've not been a good boy." 

"Don't know. Somebody must take care of the outside as well as inside of 
church. Dr. Buell rubs down the folks, and I rub the horses : he sees that their 
tacklin' is all right in there, and I do the same out here. Folks and animals are 
pretty much of a muchness ; and they'll bear a sight o' takin' care of." 

"Whose nag is that one, Hiram — the roan?" 

"That's Deacon Marble's'." 

"Why, he seems to sweat standing still." 

Hiram's eye twinkled. 

"You needn't say nothin', doctor ; but I thought it a pity so many horses 
shouldn't be doin' anything. Of course, they don't know anything about Sunday 
(it ain't like workin' a creatur' that reads the Bible) : so I just slipped over to 
Skiddy's widder (she ain't been outdoors this two months, and I knew she ought 



212 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



to have the air), and I gave her about a mile. She was afraid 'twould be breakiu' 
Sunday. 'Not a bit,' says I. 'Didn't the Lord go out Sundays, and set folks otY 
with their beds on their backs ? and didn't he pull oxen and sheep out of ditches, 
and do all that sort of thing?' If she'd knew that I took the deacon's team, she'd 
been worse afraid. But I knew the deacon would like it ; and if Polly didn't, so 
much the better. I like to spite those folks that's too particular ! There, doctor, 
there's the last hymn." 

It rose upon the air, softened by distance and the inclosure of the building — 
rose and fell in regular movement. Even Hiram's tongue ceased. The vireo 
in the tops of the elm hushed its shrill snatches. Again the hymn rose, and this 
time fuller and louder, as if the whole congregation had caught the spirit. Men's 
and women's voices, and little children's, were in it. Hiram said, without any of 
his usual pertness : 

"Doctor, there's somethin' in folks' singin' when you are outside the church 
that makes you feel as though you ought to be inside. Mebbe a fellow will be 
left outside up there when they're singin', if he don't look out." 

When the last verse had ended, a pause and silence ensued. Then came a 
gentle bustle, a sound of pattering feet. Out shot a boy, and then two or three ; 
and close upon them a bunch of men. The doors were wide open and thronged. 
The whole green was covered with people, and the sidewalks were crowded. 
Tommy Taft met the minister at the door, and put out his great rough hand to 
shake. 

"Thankee, doctor ; thankee : very well done. Couldn't do it better myself. 
It'll do good — know it. Feel better myself. I need just such preachin' — moldy 
old sinner — need a scourin' about once a week. Drefful wicked to hev such 
doctrine, and not be no better; ain't it, doctor?" 





BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 213 



SMOKE-SIGNIFYING DOUBT 

FROM THE "REVERIES OF A BACHELOR" 

BY DONALD 0. MITCHELL 

(Born at Norwich, Conn., April, 1S22) 

WIFE ?— thought I ;— yes, a wife ! 
And why ? 
I'l And pray, my dear sir, why not — why ? Why not doubt ; why 

not hesitate ; why not tremble ? 

Does a man buy a ticket in a lottery — a poor man, whose whole 
earnings go in to secure the ticket — without trembling, hesitating, 
and doubting ? 

Can a man stake his bachelor respectability, his independence and comfort, 
upon the die of absorbing, unchanging, relentless marriage, without trembling 
at the venture ? 

Shall a man who has been free to chase his fancies over the wide world, 
without let or hindrance, shut himself up to marriageship, within four walls 
called Home, that are to claim him, his time, his trouble, and his thought, thence- 
forward forevermore, without doubts thick, and thick-coming as smoke? 

Shall he who has been hitherto a mere observer of other men's cares and 
business — moving ofif where they made him sick at heart, approaching whenever 
and wherever they made him gleeful — shall he now undertake administration of 
just such cares and business without qualms? Shall he, whose whole life has 
been but a nimble succession of escapes from trifling difficulties, now broach 
without doubtings — that matrimony where if difficulty beset him, there is no 
escape? Shall this brain of mine, careless-working, never tired with idleness, 
feeding on long vagaries and high gigantic castles, dreaming out beatitudes hour 
by hour — turn itself at length to such dull task-work as thinking out a livelihood 
for wife and children? 

Where thenceforward will be those sunny dreams in which I have warmed 
my fancies and my heart, and lighted my eye with crystal ? This very marriage, 
which a brilliant working imagination has invested time and again with brightness 
and delight, can serve no longer as a mine for teeming fancy ; all, alas ! will be 
gone — reduced to the dull standard of the actual. No more room for intrepid 
forays of imagination — no more gorgeous realm-making — all will be over! 

Why not, I thought, go on dreaming? 




DONALD G. MITCHELL 



214 



DONALD G. MITCHELL 215 

Can any wife be prettier than an after-dinner fancy, idle and yet vivid, can 
paint for you? Can any children make less noise than the little, rosy-cheeked 
ones, who have no existence except in the omniuin gatherum of your own brain? 
Can any housewife be more unexceptionable than she who goes sweeping daintily 
the cobwebs that gather in your dreams ? Can any domestic larder be better 
stocked than the private larder of your head dozing on a cushioned chair-back 
at Delmonico's ? Caii any family purse be better filled than the exceeding plump 
one you dream of, after reading such pleasant books as Munchausen, or Typee? 

But if, after all, it must be — duty, or what-not, making provocation — what 
then ? And I clapped my feet hard against the fire-dogs, and leaned back, and 
turned my face to the ceiling, as much as to say — And where on earth, then, shall 
a poor devil look for a wife ? 

Somebody says — Lyttleton or Shaftesbury, I think — that "marriages would 
be happier if they were all arranged by the Lord Chancellor." Unfortunately, 
we have no Lord Chancellor to make this commutation of our misery. 

Shall a man then scour the country on a mule's back, like Honest Gil Bias 
of Santillane? or shall he make application to some such intervening providence 
as Madame St. Marc, who, as I see by the Prcsse, manages these matters to one's 
hand for some five per cent, on the fortunes of the parties? 

I have trouted, when the brook was so low, and the sky so hot, that I might 
as well have thrown my fly upon the turnpike ; and I have hunted hare at noon, 
and woodcock in snow-time, never despairing, scarce doubting ; but for a poor 
hunter of his kind, without traps or snares, or any aid of police or constabulary, 
to traverse the world, where are swarming, on a moderate computation, some 
three hundred and odd millions of unmarried women, for a single capture — ir- 
remediable, unchangeable — and yet a capture which, by strange metonymy not 
laid down in the books, is very apt to turn captor into captive, and make game of 
hunter — all this, surely, surely may make a man shrug with doubt ! 

Then, again — there are the plaguey wife's relations. Who knows how many 
third, fourth, or fifth cousins will appear at careless complimentary intervals, long 
after you had settled into the placid belief that all congratulatory visits were at 
an end ? How many twisted-headed brothers will be putting in their advice, as a 
friend to Peggy? 

How many maiden aunts will come to spend a month or two with their "dear 
Peggy," and want to know every tea-time "if she isn't a dear love of a wife?" 
Then, dear father-in-law will beg (taking dear Peggy's hand in his) to give a little 
wholesome counsel ; and will be very sure to advise just the contrary of what 
you had determined to undertake. And dear mamma-in-law must set her nose 
into Peggy's cupboard, and insist upon having the key to your own private locker 
in the wainscot. 



2i6 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Then, perhaps, there is a little bevy of dirty-nosed nephews who come to 
spend the holidays, and eat up your East India sweetmeats ; and who are forever 
tramping over your head, or raising the old Harry below, while you are busy 
with your clients. Last, and worst, is some fidgety old uncle, forever too cold or 
too hot, who vexes you with his patronizing airs, and impudently kisses his little 
Peggy ! 

That could be borne, however ; for perhaps he has promised his fortune 

to Peggy. Peggy, then, will be rich (and the thought made me rub my shins, 
which were now getting comfortably warm, upon the fire-dogs). Then, she will 
be forever talking of Jicr fortune ; and pleasantly reminding you, on occasion of 
a favorite purchase, how lucky that she had the means ; and dropping hints about 
economy ; and buying very extravagant Paisleys. 

She will annoy you by looking over the stock-list at breakfast-time ; and 
mention quite carelessly to your clients that she is interested in such or such a 
speculation. 

She will be provokingly silent when you hint to a tradesman that you have 
not the money by you for his small bill ; in short, she will tear the life out of you, 
making you pay in righteous retribution of annoyance, grief, vexation, shame, 
and sickness of heart, for the superlative folly of "marrying rich." 

But if not rich, then poor. Bah ! the thought made me stir the coals ; 

but there was still no blaze. The paltry earnings you are able to wring out of 
clients by the sweat of your brow will now be all our income ; you will be pestered 
for pin-money, and pestered with your poor wife's relations. Ten to one she 
will stickle about taste — "Sir Visto's" — and want to make this so pretty, and that 
so charming, if she only had the means ; and is sure Paul (a kiss) can't deny his 
little Peggy such a trifling sum, and all for the common benefit. 

Then she, for one, means that Jicr children sha'n't go a-begging for clothes — 
and another pull at the purse. Trust a poor mother to dress her children in 
finery ! 

Perhaps she is ugly ; not noticeable at first, but growing on her, and (what 
is worse) growing faster on you. You wonder why you didn't see that vulgar 
nose long ago ; and that lip — it is very strange, you think, that you ever thought 
it pretty. And then, to come to breakfast with her hair looking as it does, and 
you not so much as daring to say, "Peggy, do brush your hair!" Her foot, too — • 
not very bad when decently chaussc — but now since she's married she does wear 
such infernal slippers ! And yet, for all this, to be prigging up for an hour when 
any of my old chums come to dine with me ! 

"Bless your kind hearts, my dear fellows." said I, thrusting the tongs into the 
coals, and speaking out loud, as if my voice could reach from Virginia to Paris, 
"not married yet !" 



DONALD G. xMITCHELL 217 

Perhaps Peggy is pretty enough, only shrewish. 

No matter for cold coffee ; you should have been up before. 

What sad, thin, poorly cooked chops to eat with your rolls ! 

She thinks they are very good, and wonders how you can set such an 

example to your children. 

The butter is nauseating. 

She has no other, and hopes you'll not raise a storm about butter a little 

turned. I think I see myself, ruminated I, sitting meekly at table, scarce daring 
to lift up my eyes, utterly fagged out with some quarrel of yesterday, choking 
down detestably sour muffins, that my wife thinks are "delicious," slipping in 
dried mouthfuls of burnt ham off the side of my fork tines, slipping off my chair 
sideways at the end, and slipping out, with my hat between my knees, to business, 
and never feeling myself a competent, sound-minded man till the oak door is be- 
tween me and Peggy. 

"Ha, ha! not yet," said I ; and in so earnest a tone that my dog started 

to his feet, cocked his eye to have a good look into my face, met my smile of tri- 
umph with an amiable wag of the tail, and curled up again in the corner. 

Again, Peggy is rich enough, mild enough, only she doesn't care a fig for 
you. She has married you because father or grandfather thought the match elig- 
ible, and because she didn't wish to disoblige them. Besides, she didn't positively 
hate you, and thought you were a respectable enough young person ; she has told 
you so repeatedly at dinner. She wonders you like to read poetry ; she wishes 
you would buy her a good cook book, and insists upon your making your will at 
the birth of the first baby. 

She thinks Captain So-and-So a splendid looking fellow, and wishes you 
would trim up a little, were it only for appearance's sake. 

You need not hurry up from the office so early at night ; she, bless her dear 
heart ! does not feel lonely. You read to her a love-tale ; she interrupts the pa- 
thetic parts with directions to her seamstress. You read of marriages ; she sighs, 
and asks if Captain So-and-So has left town. She hates to be mewed up in a 
cottage, or between brick walls ; she does so love the Springs ! 

But, again, Peggy loves you ; at least she swears it, with her hand on the 
"Sorrows of Werther." She has pin-money which she spends for the "Literary 
World" and the "Friends in Council." She is not bad-looking, save a bit too 
much of forehead ; nor is she sluttish, unless a neglige till three o'clock and an 
ink stain on the forefinger be sluttish ; but then she is such a sad blue ! 

You never fancied, when you saw her buried in a three-volume novel, that it 
was anything more than a girlish vagary ; and when she quoted Latin, you 
thought innocently that she had a capital memory for samplers. 

But to be bored eternallv about divine Dante and funnv Goldoni, is too bad. 



2l8 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



Your copy of Tasso, a treasure print of 1680, is all bethumbed and dog's-eared, 
and spotted with baby gruel. Even your Seneca — an Elzevir — is all sweaty with 
handling. She adores La Fontaine, reads Balzac with a kind of artist scowl, and 
will not let Greek alone. 

You hint at broken rest and an aching head at breakfast, and she will fling 
you a scrap of Anthology in lieu of the camphor-bottle, or chant the aiai, aiai of 
the tragic chorus. 

The nurse is getting dinner ; you are holding the baby ; Peggy is read- 
ing Bruyere. 

The fire smoked thick as pitch, and puffed out little clouds over the chimney- 
piece. I gave the fore-stick a kick at the thought of Peggy, baby, and Bruyere. 

Suddenly the flame flickered bluely athwart the smoke, caught at a twig 

below, rolled round the mossy oak stick, twined among the crackling tree-limbs, 
mounted, lit up the whole body of Smoke, and blazed out cheerily and bright. 
Doubt vanished with Smoke, and Hope began with Flame. 



^^^J^jiiUi+A. 





BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



RUDGIS AND GRIM 

BY MAURICE THOMPSON 

(Bom at ^'airfield, Intl., September 9, 1S44) 

^HE Rudgis farm was the only one in Lone Ridge Pocket, a secluded 
nook of the North Georgia mountain region,' and its owner, Eli 
Rudgis, was, in the ante-bellum time, a man among the simple and 
honest people who dwelt beside the little crooked highway leading 
down the valley of the Pine-log Creek. He owned but one negro, 
as was often the case with them, and he had neither wife nor chil- 
dren. His slave was his sole companion of the human kind, sharing with cer- 
tain dogs, pigs, horses and oxen a rude, democratic distribution of favors and 
frowns. As a man this negro was an interesting specimen of the genuine Afri- 
can — short, strongly built, but ill-shapen, with a large head firmly braced by a 
thick, muscular neck on broad, stooping shoulders ; a skin as black as night ; 
small deep-set eyes ; a protruding, resolute jaw, and a nose as fiat as the head of 
an adder. As a slave he was, perhaps, valuable enough in his way ; but both as 
man and thrall he did no discredit to his name, which was Grim. He, too, was 
a familiar figure along the Pine-log road, as he drove an old creaking ox-cart to 
and from the village. 

When the war broke out, master and slave had reached the beginning of the 
downward slope of life, and, having spent many years together in their lonely 
retreat at the Pocket, had grown to love each other after the surly, taciturn fash- 
ion of men who have few thoughts aiid a meagre gift of expression. 

Eli Rudgis was tall, slim, cadaverous, slow of movement, and sallow ; but he 
had a will of his own, and plenty of muscle to enforce it withal. 

"Grim," said he one day, "them derned Northerners air a-goin' ter set ye 
free." 

The negro looked up from the hickory-bark basket he was mending, and 
scowled savagely at his master. 

"Wat yo' say, Mars Rudgis ?" he presently inquired. 
"Them Yankees air a-goin' ter gi' ye yer freedom poorty soon." 
Grim's face took on an expression of dogged determination, his shoulders 
rose almost to the level of his protruding ears, and his small, wolfish eyes gleamed 
fiercely. 

"Who say dey gwine ter do dat?" he demanded, with slow, emphatic enun- 
ciation. 




.WAi Kir.ii riio.wrsoN 



M/MIKIC'I': 'niOMI'SON 221 

"I say hit, an' vv'cii I .sa\s hit," hc^^an the inastc-r; hut Orim hroke in with: 

"Dcy cayii't do iiiilhir vviil me. I (Idik' maile u]> in v mind ; (hs chil' cayn't be 
fo'c-cd. Yo' yah dat, Mars kiidgis?" 

kiidgis grinned dryly, and walked away, sniokinj^- his c(>\)'\)i\)v with tlie air lA 
a phil().s()])lier who bides his time. 

'I'he Kndgis cabin was a Ujw, ncjndescript lo^ strncturt; of three or four r(jonis 
and a wide rnlry hall, set in the midst oi a thick, luxuriant orchard of peach, 
])hini and a])])le trees crowninj^ a small c(jnical focjtiiill, which, seen from a little 
ilistance, ap])(arcd lo rest aj^ainst Ihe rocky breast of the mountain that stood 
over against the nioutn of the I'ocket. h'rijm the rickety veranda, where Rudgis 
now sought a scat, there was a line view of the little farm, whose angular but roll- 
ing patches of tillable land straggled away to the foothills on the other side of the 
I'ocket, beyond which the wall of cliffs rose, gray and brown, to a great height. 

l\ecently i',li Rndgis had been thinking a good deal about Grim; for, as the 
war continued, it grew in his mind that the South was going to lose the fight. 
Me had only recently heard (jf President Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation; 
and with the far-seeing prudence characteristic of a certain (jrder of provincial in- 
teileel, he was considering how best to forestall the effect of freedom if it should 
come, as he feared it would. Grim was his property, valued at about eight hun- 
dred dollars in "good nujney," or in Confederate scri])t at perhaps two or three 
thousand dollars, more or less, lie shrank from selling the negro, for in his dry, 
peculiar way he was fond of him ; but, on the other hand, he could not consent to 
lose so much money on the outcome of an issue not of his own making. It can 
icadily be imagined how, with ample leisure for reflectic^n, and with no other 
problem to share his attenti(jn, l^udgis gradually buried himself, so to speak, in 
this desire to circmnvent and nnllify c'nianei])ation (insofar as it would affect his 
ownt'rsliip of (jrimj when it slujuld c(jnie. 

Grim was far more knowing, far better informed, and much more of a phil- 
osoi)her than his master gave him credit for being. J>y some means, as occult 
as reliable, he had kept perfectly abreast of the progress of the great weltering, 
thmidering, death-dealing tem])est of the war, and in his heart he felt the coming 
oi" deliverance, the jubilee of eternal freedom for his race. Incapable, perhaps, 
of seeing clearly the true aspect of what was probably in store for him, he yet 
experienced a change of prospect that affected every fibre of his imagination, and 
opened wide every pore of his sensibility. Naturally wary, suspicious, and quick 
to observe signs, he had been aware that his master was revolving some scheme, 
which in all probability would effect a change in their domestic relations, to the 
extent, possibly, of severing the tie which for so long had bound together the 
lord and the thrall of I^one Ridge l^ockct. 

"He studyin' 'bout er-sellin' me," he solilociuizcd, as he lingered over his 



222 I'l-.ST 'nil\H;S l-KOM AMI'IKICAN MTKkA'n'Kl': 

task of basket iiKMidinj; alUT l\iul.i;is had k*'"^'. "^m' 'x-' ''"'^ ''^' or-i;\viiU' icv fot)l 

(lis ok i-ooii. Wi-ll. "loir (Ir l,<«i'. mckkr lie wilk'" 

"What w iiuitti'i ill" thar, (aim?"' caUod the master tVom his scat o\\ the \cr- 

aiuki. "What \e i^rouhii' 'htmt. Idk or puj) ovit er ham bone?" 

"NulVm', sah ; 1 jes' trviii' io' tor ktich ikil elume w'at 1 he'n or-kariiin'." 
Then U) eliMuh the false statement, (dim he^aii lumimiii}; ; 

" He eoon he hah er eejit wile. 

I loe \ o' eo'ii. honey ; 
I )e eoon lie hah er eejit wife. 
An' slu' iiehher eoinh her hah in 'er Hfe, 

Ki-ep er hoein' yo' eo'ii, lu)ne\. 

"An' de eoon sa\ : "1 knows w'at I'll do', 

1 li>e \ o' eo'ii, luMiey ; 
An' his wife she s(|nall out, "1 does too!' 
An' she snateli 'im poorty ni_i;li in two, 

Ki-ep cv luH'in' \o' eo'n, honey. 

" So dat eoon he allns rieollec', 

1 loe \ o' eo'n. honey ; 
k'.f he talk too loml he nins' expee' 
She serateh he eyes an' wrim; he neck; 

Keei> er hoein' yo' eo'n, honey." 

l\ndi;is listcnetl stoieall\ enonj^h. so far as facial expression went ; Init when 
the low, soflK melodions soni; was done, he sluH>k his head, and sniilcil aridly. 

"I'.ot more sense 'an er riiiladelplu lawxcr." he nintteied niuler his breath, 
"an' he's j;ol scmiic nndertakin' intei- that noi^i^in er liis'n. .'-^'pect T he\' ter (\o 
somethin' er iioiher wi' him, er he's I'r i^oin' ter _i;it the best o' me." 

lie drew awa\ at his whee/iiij; pipe, leaniiii; his chin, thinl\ frin^cti with 
tirizzleil beard, in his left hand, and proppins;- that arm with his knee. His t\pi- 
cal mountain face wore a pn//led, half-worried, half-anntseil expression. 

"Dern 'is black jiictur'," he CiMilinncd. inandibly, thoui^li his lips moved; "lie 
air a-eonsiderin' freediMii rii^lit now." 

" W hi' man Ink me fer ei" fool, 

1 loe \ o" ci^'n, honey ; 
\\\>'k nie like er \eller mule, 
.\n' never s.^i' me time ter cool : 

Keep er-hoein' \-o" eo'n, luMiey," 



MAUR1CI-: TIIOiVirSON 223 

luinuncd Grim in that tender falsetto of his. Tiierc was a haze in the air, a May- 
time shimmer over the Pocket and up the terraced slopes of the mountains. 
Suddenly a heavy booming, like distant thunder, tumbled as if in long, throbbing 
waves across the peaks, and fell into the little drowsy cove. 

"Wat dat, Mars Rudgis? 'Fore de Lor', w'at dat?" cried the negro, leaping 
to his feet, and staring stupidly, his great mouth open, his long arms akimbo. 

Eli Rudgis took his pipe-stem from his mouth, and sat in a hearkening atti- 
tude. "Hit's thet air war er-comin'," he presently said, and resumed his smok- 
ing and reflections. 

"De good Lor', Mars Rudgis, w'at we gwine ter do?" stammered Grim, his 
heavy countenance growing strangely ashen over his corrugated blackness. 

"Shet erp, an' mend that thcr' basket," growled the master. "Goin' ter mek 
ye wo'k like the devil er-beatin' tan-bark while I kin, fer thct's yer frien's er-com- 
in' ter free ye. Grim, shore's shootin'." 

The African bowed his head over his light task, and remained thoughtfully 
silent, while the dull pounding in the far distance increased to an incessant roar, 
vague, wavering, suggestive, awful. 

Rudgis thought little of the wider significance accompanying that slowly 
rolling tempest of destruction ; his mental vision was narrowed to the compass of 
the one subject which lately had demanded all his powers of consideration. Was 
it possible for him to hold Grim as his slave despite the Proclamation of Emanci- 
|)ation, and notwithstanding the triumph of the Federal armies? 

"Ef I try ter take 'im down the country ter sell 'im, they'll conscrip' me inter 
the war," he argued to himself, "an' ef I stays yer them 'fernal Yankees'll set 'im 
free. Seem lak it air pow'ful close rubbin', an' dern ef I know what ter do. I air 
kind o' twixt the skillet an' the coals." 

Day after day he sat smoking and cogitating, while Grim pottered at this or 
that bit of labor. He had an unconquerable aversion to going into the army, a 
thing he had avoided, partly by reason of his age and partly by one personal shift 
or another, after the exigencies of the Confederacy had led to the conscription of 
"able-bodied men" regardless of age. lie felt that things were growing to des- 
]K'rate straits in the low country, and he ftarcd to sliow himself outside his moun- 
tain fastness lest a conscript officer might nab him and send him to the front. 
Not that he was a coward ; but in the high, dry atmosphere of the hill country 
there lingered a sweet and inextinguishable sense of loyalty to the old flag, which 
touched the minds of many mountaineers with a vague intimation of the enormity 
of rebellion against the Government of Washington and Jackson. And yet they 
were Southerners, good fighters, Yankee-haters, and clung to the right of prop- 
crtv in their negroes with a tenacity as tough as the sinews of their hardy limbs, 
'i'hcy were, indeed, far more stubborn in this last regard than any of the great 



224 BEST THIXGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

slave owners of the low country, owing, no doubt, to their narrow, provincial no- 
tions of personal independence, which felt no need for aid, or for the interference 
of the law in their private concerns. 

Grim was not a typical slave, but he w^as a legitimate instance of the slavery 
known in the secluded region of the Southern mountain country. He was as 
free, in all but name, as were most illiterate laborers of that day, barring that his 
skin and the Southern traditions set him on a plane far below and quite detached 
from that of the lowest white men. He had no bonds that galled him personally ; 
plenty to eat, just enough work to keep him robust, a good bed. sufficient cloth- 
mg, and unlimited tobacco — what more could he want ? 

His master, however, observed that he was doing a great deal of thinking; 
that lately he was busying his mind with some absorbing problem, and from cer- 
tain signs and indications the fact appeared plain that Grim was making ready to 
meet the day of freedom. Rudgis saw this with a dull, deep-seated sentimental 
pang mixed with anger and resentment. Years of companionship in that lonely 
place had engendered a fondness for his slave of which he was not fully aware, 
and out of which was now issuing a sort of bewilderment of mind and soul. 
Would Grim indeed forsake him, desert him to go away to try the doubtful 
chances of a new order of things? This question was supplemented by another 
on a different stratum of human selfishness. Rudgis, like all mountain men, had 
a narrow eye to profit and loss. The money represented by Grim as his slave 
possessed a powerful influence ; it was the larger part of his fortune. 

Grim, on his part, watched his master as the tide of war flowed on through 
the mountain gaps far to the west of the Pocket ; his calculations were simpler and 
more directly personal than those of his master. Of course things could not re- 
main in this situation very long. Grim was the first to speak straight to the 
subject. 

"Mars Rudgis," said he one day, "yo' be'n 'siderin' erbout sellin' me." 

This direct accusation took the master unawares. 

"Wha — wha — what's that air ye air er-sayin', ye ol' whelp?" he spluttered, 
almost dropping his pipe. 

"Yo' be'n er-finkin' 'at I's gittin' close outer de freedom line, an' ye s'pose 
yo' 'd better git w'at ye kin fo' me, yah-yah-yah-ee-ocrp !" and the black rascal 
broke forth with a mighty guffaws bending himself almost double, and slapping 
his hands vigorously. "But yo' 's feared dey git ye an' mek yo' tote er gun, an' 
'at yo' 'd git de stufifin' shot outen yo' ef yo' try take me down de country, yah- 
yah-yah-ee-oorp !" 

"Shet erp ! What ye mean? Stop thet air sq'allin'. er I'll — " 

"Yah-yah-yah-ee-eep ! I done cotch outer yo' ca'c'lation. Mars Rudgis, 'fo' 
de Lor' I has, oh ! Yah-yah-yah-yah-ha-eep ! An' yo' fink I'se er eejit all dis 



MAURICE THOMPSON 225 

time, yah-yah-yah ! Oh, gi' 'long, Mars Rudgis, yo' cayn't fool dis chicken, yah- 
ha-yah-ha-ha-ha-ee-eer-pooh !" 

Rudgis tried several times to stop this flow of accusative mirth, but at last, 
quite confused, he stood tall and gaunt, with a sheepish grin on his dry, wrinkled 
face, gazing at the writhing negro as he almost screamed out his sententious but 
fluent revelation. 

"I done be'n er-watchin' yo' like er sparrer-hawk watchin' er peewee, Mars 
Rudgis, an' I say ter myself: ']es' see 'im er-figerin' how much I's wo'f, an' how 
much he gwine ter lose w'en I goes free. An' I done be'n jes' er-bustin' over it 
all dis time, yah-yah-yah-ee-ee !' " 

"Grim," said Rudgis, presently, with slow, emphatic expression, "I air er- 
goin' 'mejitly ter give ye one whirpin' 'at ye'll ricomember es long es they's breath 
in yer scurby ol' body." 

They were standing on the veranda at the time. Rudgis turned into the en- 
try, and immediately came out with a ramrod in his hand. 

"Now fer yer sass ye air er-goin' ter ketch hit," he said, in that cold, rasping 
tone which means so much. "Stan' erp yer an' take yer med'cine." 

Grim went down on his knees and began to beg ; his mirth had vanished ; he 
was trembling violently. Rudgis had never whipped him. 

"Fo' de Lor' sake. Mars Eli, don' w'irp de po' ol' chil' ! I war jes funnin', 
Mars Rudgis ; I jes' want ter see w'at yo' gwine say. I — " 

x\t that moment there was a great clatter of iron-shod hoofs at the little yard 
gate ; the next, three or four horses bounded over the low fence and dashed up to 
the veranda. 

"Please. Mars Rudgis, don' w'irp me! I didn' mean no harm, Mars Rudgis; 
'deed I didn' ! Oh, fo' de Lor' sake !" 

"Ha! there ! stop that !" commanded a loud, positive voice. "What the devil 
do you mean?" 

Rudgis had already looked that way. He saw some mounted soldiers, wear- 
ing blue uniforms and bearing bright guns, glaring at him. 

"Oh, Mars Rudgis, I never gwine do so no mo'; don' w'irp me! don' w'irp 
me !" continued Grim, paying no heed to the soldiers. "Le' me ofif dis yer time, 
fo' de goo' Lor' sake !" And he held up his hands in dramatic beseechment. 

"If you strike that negro one blow, I'll shoot a hole through you quicker than 
lightning !" roared one of the men, who appeared to be an officer, at the same time 
leveHng his pistol. 

Rudgis dropped the ramrod as if he had been suddenly paralyzed. Grim 
sprang to his feet with the agility of a black cat. 

"What does this mean ?" demanded the ofiicer, showing a gleam of anger in 
his eyes, his voice indicating no parleying mood. 



226 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Rudgis stood there, pale, stolid, silent, his mouth open, his arms akimbo. 

"Lor', sah, we jcs' er-foolin'," said Grim, seeing that his master could find 
not a word to say. "We's er-playin' hoky-poky." 

The officer leaned over his saddle-bow, and looked from one to the other of 
the culprits. 

"Yes, sah, it war hony-hokus 'at we's er-playin'." 

"Playing what?" grimly inquired the officer. 

"Rokus-pokus, sah." 

"You lying old scamp," cried the officer, glaring at him. "you're trying to 
deceive me !" 

"Ax Mars Rudgis. now ; ax him, sah." 

"Humph !" and the l'\>deral officer turned to the master. "What do you say, 
sir?" 

"Tell 'im, Mars Rudgis, 'bout w'at we's er-playin'," pleaded Grim. 

Rudgis moved his lips as if to speak, but they were dry and made no sound. 
He licked them with his furred, feverish tongue. Never before had he been so 
thoroughly frightened. 

"Are you dumb?" stormed the officer, again handling his weapon. "Can't 
you speak?" 

"Hit were hoky-poky," gasped Rudgis. 

"Dah, now! Mebbe yo's sat'sfied, sah. Wa' 'd I tol' you?" cried Grim, 
wagging his head and gesticulating. "We's jes' er-playin' dat leetle game." 

The officer wanted some information about a road over the mountain, so he 
made Grim saddle a undo and go with him to siiow the way. As ho rode off he 
called back to Rudgis : 

"This man's as free as you are. and he needn't come back if he don't want to." 

When they were quite gone, and the last sound of their horses' feet had died 
away down in the straggling fringe of trees at the foot of the hill. Rudgis picked 
up his ramrod and looked at it quizzically, as if he expected it to speak. Slowly 
his face relaxed, and a queer smile drew it into leathery wrinkles. 

"Hit were hoky-poky. by gum!" he muttered. "The dern ol' scamp!" 

Presently he filled his pipe, and lighted it, grinning all the while, and saying : 

"The triflin' ol' rooster, he hed half er dozen dif'ent names for it ; but hit were 
hoky-poky jes' the same. The dern old coon !" 

The day passed, likewise the night, but Grim did not return. A week, a 
month, six months; no Grim, no mule. Sherman had swept through Georgia, 
and on up through the Carolinas ; Johnston and Lee had surrendered. Peace 
had fallen like a vast silence after the awful din of war. The worn and weary 
soldiers of the South were straggling back to their long-neglected homes to re- 
sume as best they could the broken threads of their peaceful lives. 



.MAURICE THOMPSON 



22^ 



Rudgis missed Grim more as a companion than as a slave. He mourned 
f(jr him, in a way, rccaUing his pecuHaritics, and musing over that one superb 
stroke of wit by which, perhaps, his hfe had been .saved. Never did he fail, at the 
end of such reverie, to repeat, more sadly and tenderly each time, "Hit war hoky- 
poky, blame his ol' hide !" The humor of this verbal reference was invariably 
indicated by a peculiar rising inflection in pronouncing "were," by which he 
meant to accentuate lovingly Grim's prompt prevaricati(jn. 

Early one morning Rudgis was smoking in his accustomed seat on the ver- 
anda. In his shirt-sleeves, bareheaded and barefooted, his cotton shirt open wide 
at throat and bosom, he looked like a bronze statue of Emancipation, so collapsed, 
wrinkled and sear was he. His Roman nose was the only vigorous feature of his 
unkcni])t and retrospective face. 

The sound of mule's feet trotting up the little stony road did not attract his 
curiosity, albeit few riders passed that way ; but when Oim came suddenly in 
sight, it was an apparition that relaxed every fibre of Rudgis's frame. He 
dropped lower in the old armchair, his arms fell limp, and his mouth opened 
wide, letting fall the cob-pipe. He stared helplessly. 

"Yah I is. Mars Rudgis ; got back at las'. How ye do, Mars Rudgis ?" 

There was a ring of genuine delight in the negro's voice, the timber of loyal 
sentiment too sweet for expression in written language. He slid from the mule's 
back — not the same mule that he had ridden away, but an older and poorer one — 
and scrambled through the lopsided gate. 

"Well, by dad !" was all Rudgis could say ; "well, by dad !" His lower jaw 
wabbled and sagged. 

"Tol' yo' dey couldn't sfjl dis niggah free, didn' 1?" cried Grim, as he made 
a dive for both his old master's hands. ' "I's Cfjme back ter 'long ter yo' same lak 
1 alius did. Yah, sah ; yah, sah." 

Rudgis arose slowly from his seat and straightened up his long, lean form 
so that he towered above the short, sturdy negro. He looked down at him in si- 
lence for some moments, his face twitching strangely. Slowly the old-time ex- 
pression bcgon to ap])ear around his mouth and eyes. With a quick step he went 
into the house, and returned almost instantly, bearing a ramrod in his hand. 

"Well, Grim," he said, with peculiar emphasis, "cf ye air still my prop'ty, an' 
ye don't objec', s'posin' we jes' finish up that air leetle game er hoky-poky what 
we was er playin' w'en them Yankees kem an' bothered us." 



/^^>^^^<rwyv.^.^^>^. 




tOVVARD W. TOWNSEND 



228 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 229 



THE DOG ON THE ROOF 

BY EDWARD W. TOWNSEND 

(Corn at Cleveland, O., February lo, 1S55) 

'ES, I stole the dog. Maybe it's the only thing I ever stole, and maybe 

it isn't. That's nothing to you, is it? You asked me for the story 

and I'll tell it to you. I don't suppose you're a Headquarters detective. 

I know you are not. Why? Perhaps I know them all. Perhaps it 

comes handy in my graft to know them. That's nothing to you, is it? 

'T had a friend — Marty. He was dead square. He was educated, 

too, and had the brains to turn a trick that would make the town talk about him 

for a month, but he wouldn't do it. He was just square all the way through, 

but he was my friend. 

"You asked me for the story, and I'll tell it to you if you'll print his name 
right and say that he was square. Never mind me ; it was him I was thinking of 
— always thinking of. Whether I had all I wanted to eat or not, or whether I 
had a place to sleep or not, it wasn't myself I was thinking of ; it was him. 

"Well, you saw the dog on the roof, you say. You know he was well bred, 
eh ? You know a thing about dogs, then. He took first prize in his class up at 
Madison Square Garden. That's right. He sold for a thousand the next day, 
and I stole him. 

"My friend's name was Marty — Martin Borden. We went to school to- 
gether on Broome street. Yes, they call that part of town Poverty Hollow, and 
that's right, too, I guess. He went longer than me ; he was educated. He went 
up to fractions ; but I left when my mother died and my father was sent away. I 
guess I was about eight, something like eight, but I'm not^quite sure. They've 
got it at Headquarters with my picture. You can look there, if you like. 

"Marty's father earned good wages in a foundry down by Corlears Hook, 
and Marty was kept in school until he was twelve, I think. 

"He was always looking me up and taking me home with him for grub and 
a place to sleep, and even when he was a little kid, was always giving me straight 
tips and telling me I'd do better if I was square. But what could I do? I had 
to live. I had a right to live, even if I couldn't get work. Isn't that right? 

"Well, when Marty's old man died, Tvlarty got work down in the foundry do- 
ing little jobs a kid could do. 

"One day — he'd been there a few years while I was doing time — an iron 



j^^o r.i'.sT riiixt^.s i-KOM amI":i>:ica:\ urnUxA'iHKK 

Uoam tell on liiin aiul did soinclhiuL; i\m\'v to liis hack. Xi>. I ilon't know what it 
was. The iKu-tors at I'.oUcviic had a lot of lon^ names for it. hut thov iliihi't do 
Mait\ 's hack an\ l;ooi1. 1 was calliui; on him ovory ilay and fctchinj;- him things 
what 1 cinild j;\i. until tlu-\ said Mart\ shouUl go to tho Island. 

"That near hioko his heart, 'cause he knew it meant he never was to he 
cured, and was to li\e there in the lu>siMtal all his life. 1 saw him crying one da\- 
when I went to I'.ellevne, and it near set me cra/\. 

■•\\ ell, 1 went to the boss doctor of the hospital ami asks why had IMarly to 
go to the Island, and he says because he luid no lu>me to go to. That set me 
thinking. 1 got something that day — never n\ind how — and I rented a room and 
went to the boss and saiil I'd take Marty home with me. I showed him the 
room-rent receipt, and showed him the money to hire a carriage to take Marty 
home in. and they let me have him. 

"It was a httle room just under the roof, with a stepdadder nnuiing up to a 
glass skyUght which had a sliding window. 

"I toUl Mart\ 1 was working, and lied about what my job was. an^i all about 
it. If he knew how it was it would have made him feel terrible bad. 'cause, you 
see. he was so square. The worst of it was. that even when i had money F 
couldn't sta\ home with him. 'cause then he'd see 1 wasn't working, antl that 
woiUd make him feel terrible bad. 1 waiUed to stay home. too. 'cause 1 knew 
he was lonel\, laying there on his back all day. so weak he couldn't hoUl up a 
book or jiaper to read. 

"1 was on iMflh Avenue one day. away up by the Park, kind o{ looking 
round to see it anything would come my way. when a young swell comes along 
with a bull terrier. The dog was a beauty. 1 saw the swell hadn't owned him 
long, for the dog wasn't friendly with him. 1 don't know just how it was. but all 
of a sudden it strikes me what good company the dog would be for Marty, and T 
sneaks up and grabs it. 1 made the chase all right, for I don't think the swell 
missed the ilog until 1 was out of sight. 

"I waited until it was time for me to be home from 'work.' and 1 goes to our 
room and puts the dog on Mart) 's bed. 

"C^f course, dogs are better than most men. but Marty was as good as a dog. 
and those two took to each other from the time they looked straight into each 
other's eyes. Honest, it is a wonder the way they were chums from the first 
minute 1 put the dog on the bcil. I told Marty I'd found the dog and would 
look out Un an advertisement tor it. and return it. Well, the advertisement came 
all right, and there were pieces in the paper about the prize winner the swell had 
paid a thousand for. being lost. The reward kept jumping up every day until it 
was '$250 ami no questions. ' 

"The day that happened. I only had enough money to get the cheapest kind 



EDWARD W. TOWNSEND 231 

of food for Marty a. id tlu do[^, and I made up my mind Fd return the doj; and 
Ij^ct a lot of nice things for Marty. 

"Dl tell you why I didn't. When I went to our room I thought first Marty 
had gone crazy, for he was laughing like nothing was the matter with his back, 
and there was no pains in his head. 

"Comfort — that was the name Marty give the dog, for Marty was educated 
and knew a lot of words — Comfort was on the bed doing all the tricks you ever 
heard of. Marty told me Comfort could climb the ladder, slide back the window 
and go on the rof)f. 

"Ilonest, while Marty was telling this the dog was looking at him with his 
head on one side and his eyes cocked up knowing, and when Marty stopped, the 
dog ran up the ladder and was doing all his stunts on the skyliglit. Every once 
in a while Comfort would stop his tricks and stand with his for? feet on the edge 
of the skylight, grinning, and his ears cocked, like he was saying: 'How do you 
Ukv that, Marty?' 

"Then he'd dance all over the tin roof and make a noise like it was raining. 
When it was terrible hot up there, Marty would say : 'Let's have a rainstorm, 
Comfort,' and the dog would go up on the roof and patter around with his claws 
on the tin till Marty would call him down. 

"So I didn't take the dog back for the reward. 

"That was the way it was till Marty — till the end. 

"When I could get the money I'd have a paid doctor, but Marty said not to. 
He knew it was coming, but he never showed he was getting punishment. Com- 
fort seemed to know, too, and I guess he stopped sleeping at all, for if Marty 
would make a move at night that wouldn't frighten a fly, Comfort would be at his 
side as ({uick as me; kind of kissing his hand and making little talks to him, you 
know, the way dogs do. 

"Well, Marty quit one night; one hand in mine and one on Comfort's neck. 
The wagon came for him — I hadn't any money that time for a hearse — and when 
the men took him out of the room Comfort went up on the roof. I was standing 
on the sidewalk while they were putting Marty in the wagon, when some people 
said: 'IvOok at the dog!' 

"Comfort was on the edge of the roof looking down, and as the men shut 
the door of the wagon on Marty the dog jumped. I broke my arm here trying 
to catch him, but he struck the sidewalk. He licked my hand when I picked 
him up, and tried to tell me he did it on purpose to die — and then he died. 

"The ofBcer who came up for the crowd recognized the dog, and I'll get six 
months to-day for stealing him. Well, I did steal him, and I'll say so now; for 
Marty's gone and he never knew." 




2Z2 I'.EST THINGS FRO^I AMERICAN LITERATURE 

THE NIGHT ELEVATOR MAN'S STORY 

BY E. W. TOWNSEND 

OU seen her here, eh? She was a pretty kid, too, for sure. Lots of 
people asked me why 1 had her in the elevator here with me. No, 
not lots, you know, 'cause there ain't lots what ride in this elevator ; 
but nearly every one what tlid wanted to know all about the kid. I 
didn't tell them, mostlw 'cause when she was asleep I didn't like tO 
talk and wake her up. so I just didn't say nothing-. 

"It was like this that I first fetched her in the elevator: I was passing by 
her floor and heard her cry. Well, I took my passenger up to the door above, 
and coming down I heard her cry again. It wasn't a cry like the kid was hurted, 
or I'd gone in the room right away. It was, you know, like the kid was scared, 
see? Well, I came down to the ground lloor landing and tried to read my 
paper, but all I could do was just to hear that kid a-crying. I couldn't hear it 
for fair, you know ; I couldn't hear it right, 1 mean, but I could hear it just the 
same. Kind of in my mind I could hear it, you know. 

"W^ell, I kept making a bluff at reading my paper, but all the time I wasn't 
doing a thing but just hearing in my mind that kid up there on the fifth fioor, 
crying like it was scared — frightened, you know. 

"After a bit I couldn't stand for it no longer, as I just pulled up to the fifth 
and listened, and there was the kid crying — sobbing, you know — and for sure, 
just as I heard it in my mind, see? 

"Say, it wasn't my business all right, but I just let myself in with the pass- 
key, and I goes to the crib where the kid was, and I gives it a jolly, see? 'What's 
the matter with us, kiddie?' says I; and say, she catches my hand with one of 
her soft little hands, and says, you know, with her little kid kind of talk, she says 
that the bogy man was after her. 

"So I savs, 'What bogy man?' and she says the bogy man her mamma told 
her would catch her if she wasn't a good little girl, and kept still all the time her 
mamma was away. 

"T had to leave her then, for some one was ringing up the elevator ; but when 
I'd took the passenger to his floor I goes back to the kid. and she was crying 
worse than before, so I grabs her up with a blanket and takes her out in the 
elevator with me. 



EDWARD W. T(3W\SEXD 233 

"Say, she liked that up to the hmit. We talked with each other to beat the 
band, and I told her stories till she went to sleep on the long seat there. 

"I got her to bed and all tucked in before her mother come home, and it 
wasn't very early at that. 

"People in this kind of apartment house don't always come home early, and 
there ain't much talk about it when they do — particular the women. 

"Well, the next night I heard the kid crying again and, say, honest, she was 
calling my name. 

" 'Dannie.' she was saying; 'Dannie, tum take me, Dannie.' Say, you know, 
that fetches me quick. It was the same story again — her mother had told her the 
bogy man would come and bite her hands off ef she made any noise, and she was 
crying because she thought the bogy man was there. 

"I took her out in the elevator again, wrapped up in the blanket, and then 
she says-, comfy as a bull-pup on a fur rug, 'Tell me a story, Dannie,' says she. 

"Well, I never thought I could make up so many yarns as I did for that kid. 
You know, yarns about fairies what are in books printed for kids. I never read 
any of these books myself until I bought one for her ; and she never had none 
until I bought that one. I read the stories all day until I knew them for fair, 
and they were not so bad, even for me, at that. Then I'd tell her the stories and 
make up others about the mugs — the folks, I mean — what were in the book. 

"That was because I got to taking her out to the elevator every night. The 
liousekeeper told me that the mother mostly slept all day, and, to keep the kid 
quiet, the mother would make her dopey in the daytime, and that v,'as the reason 
she couldn't sleep at night. 

"I wasn't minding it, 'cause I got to want the kid with me as much as the 
kid wanted to come. 

"We was getting great chums. We near wore out that fairy book, and she 
knew all the stories in it for fair, as well as me ; and ever}' night in the long hours 
when nobody, almost, used the elevator, I'd make up new yarns till she'd go to 
sleep as quiet as a kitten, there on the seat where you seen her. 

"One night I showed her a picture in a paper, and it was about a little kid 
what was playing with a doll — you know, a little kid about her size. She looks 
at the picture a long time, and when I'd told her about a hundred stories about it 
she says, 'Dannie, what's a doll?' 

"Honest, that breaks me all up. I wasn't brought up too fine myself, but 
for sure I seen plenty of dolls, even in our tenement, which this house would 
buy twenty of them. 

"Well, the next day I bought a doll, and some dresses for it, and, say, you 
should seen the kid that night ! She wouldn't go to sleep, and my stories wasn't 



234 i>i'-S'r 'riii\(;s i-ki^m amI'.ukvw i.iti'K \'rii>:i': 

ill il n litlK- lut. v^^lu- dri-ssod and uiuli osm-iI that (loll a million linu-s, and \o\Ci\ 
it lill 11 was lUMi l)n'stt."il lo piiH'i's. 

"Thai kiiiil ol U-I«,iirs nu-, wui know kiiul ot Irlclirs u\c sill\, 1 wiuulorod 
wlial kind ol woman tlu' kid's mollicr (.-onld lu', Init 1 luwrr lonnd out. v'^lic 
skipprd Init Iril tiio kid in'hind. 

"I was lor lakiiiL; tlu- kid lionu- with nu\ 'canso, \ on scr, slu- didn't scoin to 
caio ahonl hrr niotluM In-inL; i;oiu\ so Ion-; as she i.-onld rido np and down — it]) 
and down the rU'vator with Canine, and pla\ with tlu- doll, and lu\n- ni\ stoiios — 
von know, tlu- _L;anu-s I'd m.ikr np loi her ahont the lair\ folks in the hook 

"r.nt the eo]) on this heat he,nd ol tlu- ease and ri"ii(Mti'd it to the v^oeietv. 
A (u-ir\ am'iil e.mie and tools tlu- kid. lie had .i paper yon know, a papei 
fiom tlu' L'omt House, so 1 li.id to lei lu-r j;o. 

"v'^Iu- eiii-d a i;ood hit, hut 1 ,i;a\e her the ra.L^i^y doll and the worn htiok, ai\(l — 
and - say. it's kind ol lonesome ridiiiL; np and down lu-re al nii^ht without lu-r, 
'cause 1 ean heai her er\ not tor lair. \ on know, Imt my mind eaii hear her when 
I tries (o read m\ p.ipei and ean't." 







lil'.S'l^ 'rillN(;S I'UOM AMI'.KKVW I.ITI'.KATI KI-: -,^5 



IT IS NOT nrATii TO m 

hY (.lOKCil WA.SIIINCilON hllllUNI 

(Horn in Nrw \niU, N. \ ., i,Sn,s; dicl in 1 l..i.iu-c, lUi\\ , l'^h^) 
It is not (U-alh to .lu\ 

To U'AW tills \\IMI\ r(..i.l, 

An. I, nn.lst tlic lu ollin li.uul on lu-li, 
'To l.r ;il homo witli ( ^.d. 

It is not (Iriitli to closi- 

Thr r\i- lono dinuncd l)\ trais, 
And wake in idoiions icposc, 

To sprnd i-li-rnal vrars. 

h is not death to l.rai' 

The w I rnth I lial sets ns Ivcv 
iMoni .hni-ron .hail, to l.icalh<- the air 

( U Ix.nndirss hl.cil\. 

It is not death to iliii.t; 

Aside this sinliil .hist. 
/\nd rise on sti.>n<;, exnhini; wiiii;'. 

'1\. \\\c am. .lit; the just. 

Jesus, th.>ii I'riiu-e .>!' I ,ile. 

Th\' eh.iseii .-aniiot .he ! 
l.ik.' Thee, the\ .■on«|iu-i in the sirifi', 

T.I n-iqn with Tlie.- .in hii;h. 



^^-.-^tT^. 



^^ -Vwfc.-*, 




GEORGH WASHINGTON BHTHUNE 



236 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 237 

JOHN BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE 

HIS LAST SPEECH IN THE COURT HOUSE OK CHAKLESTOWX, VA., NOVEMBER 2d, 1859 

(Born in Torrington, Conn., 1800; executed at Charlestown. Va., 1859') 

HAVE, may it please the Court, a few words to say. 

In the first place, I deny everything but what all along- was ad- 
mitted — the design on my part to free the slaves. I intended certainly 
to have made a clean thing of that matter, as I did last Winter when I 
went into Missouri and there took slaves without the snapping of a gun 
on either side, moved them through the country, and finally left them 
in Canada. I designed to have done the same tiling on a larger scale. That was 
all I intended. I never did intend murder, or treason, or the destruction of 
property, or to excite or incite slaves to rebellion, or to make insurrection. 

I have another objection ; and that is, it is unjust that I should suffer such 
a penalty. Had I interfered in the manner which I admit, and which I admit 
has been fairly proved (for I admire the truthfulness and candor of the greater 
portion of the witnesses who have testified in this case) — had I so interfered in 
behalf of the rich, the powerful, the intelligent, the so-called great, or in behalf 
of any of their friends — either father, mother, brother, sister, wife or children, or 
any of that class — and suffered and sacrificed what I have in this interference, 
it would have been all right ; and every man in this court would have deemed it 
an act worthy of reward rather than punishment. 

This court acknowledges, as I suppose, the validity of the law of God. I see 
a book kissed here which I suppose to be a Bible, or at least the New Testament. 
That teaches me that all things whatsoever I would that men should do to me, 
I should do even so to them. It teaches me, further, "to remember them that 
are in bonds, as bound with them." I endeavor to act up to that instruction. I 
say, I am yet too young to understand that God is any respecter of persons. I 
believe that to have interfered as I have done — as I have always freely admitted 
I have done — in behalf of His despised poor, was not wrong, but right. Now, if 
it is deemed necessary that I should forfeit my life for the furtherance of the ends 
of justice, and mingle my blood further with the blood of my children and with 
the blood of millions in this slave country whose rights are disregarded by wicked, 
cruel and unjust enactments, I submit ; so let it be done. 
Let me say one word further. 
I feel entirely satisfied with the treatment I have received on my trial. Con- 




JOHN BROWN 



238 



JOHN liROWN OI-^ OSvSAWATOMlK 239 

sidcring- all the circumstances, it has been more generous than I expected. But 
1 feel no consciousness of guilt. 1 have stated from the first what was my inten- 
tion and what was not. I never had any design against the life of any person, 
nor any disposition to c(Mnniit treason, or excite slaves to rebel, or make any gen- 
eral insurrection. I never encouraged any man to do so, but always discouraged 
any idea of that kind. 

Let me say, also, a word in regard to the statements made by some of those 
connected with me. I hear it has been stated by s(jme of them that I have in- 
duced them to join me. lint the contrary is true. T do not say this to injure 
them, but as regretting their weakness. There is not one of them but joined me 
of his own accord, and the greater part of them at their own expense. A num- 
ber of them I never saw, and never had a word of conversation with, till the day 
they came to me, and that was for the purpose I have stated. 



> A^ 



'"mm' 




EDGAR ALLAN POE 



240 




BEST THIXGS FROM AMERICAX LITERATURE 241 



IN THE MOUTH OF THE SEA 

BEING A PART OF THE THRILLING TALE ENTITLED "A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM" 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

(Born at Boston, Mass., Feb. 19, 1809; died at Baltimore, Md., Oct. 7, 1849) 

^Y this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we 
did not feel it so much as we scudded before it, but at all events the 
seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind and lay flat and 
frothing, now got up into absolute mountains. A singular change, too, 
had come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as 
black as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a 
circular rift of clear sky — as clear as I ever saw, and of a deep bright blue — and 
through it there blazed forth the full moon, with a lustre that I never before knew 
her to wear. She lit up everything about us with the greatest distinctness — but, 
O God, what a scene it was to light up ! 

"I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother, but in some 
manner which I could not understand, the din had so increased that I could not 
make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top of my voice in his 
ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his 
fingers as if to say, 'Listen!' 

"At first I could not make out what he meant; but soon a hideous thought 
flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I 
glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung it far 
away into the ocean. It had run down at seven o'clock! We zvere behind the time 
of the slack, and the zvhirl of the 'Strom zvas in full fury! 

''When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the waves 
in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from beneath 
her — which appears very strange to a landsman — and this is what is called riding, 
in sea-phrase. Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly, but presently 
a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us with it 
as it rose up — up — as if into the sky. I would not have believed that any wave 
could rise so high. And then down we came with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge, 
that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from some lofty mountain- 
top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a quick glance around — and 
that one glance was all-sufficient. I saw our exact position in an instant. The 
Moskoe-strom whirlpool was about a quarter of a mile dead ahead, but no more 



242 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

like the every-day Moskoe-strom than the whirl as you now see it is like a mill- 
race. If I had not known where we were, and what we had to expect, I should 
not have recognized the place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes 
in horror. The lids clenched themselves together as if in a spasm. 

"It could not have been more than two minutes afterward until we suddenly 
felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made a sharp half- 
turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a thunderbolt. At the 
same moment the roaring noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of 
shrill shriek — such a sound as you might imagine given out by the waste-pipes 
of many thousand steam vessels letting off their steam all together. We were 
now in the belt of surf that always surrounds the whirl ; and I thought, of course, 
that another moment would plunge us into the abyss, down which we could 
only see indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with wdiich we were 
borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim 
like an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side was next 
th.e whirl, and on the larboard arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like 
a huge writhing wall between us and the horizon. 

"It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the gulf, 
I felt more composed than when we were only approaching it. Having made up 
my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror which unmanned 
me at first. I suppose it was despair that strung my nerves. * * * * 

"It may look like boasting, but what I tell you is truth. I began to reflect 
how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how foolish it was 
in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own individual life in view of 
so wonderful a manifestation of God's power. * * * * 

"There was another circumstance which tended to restore my self-possession, 
and this was the cessation of the wind, which could not reach us in our present 
situation — for, as you saw yourself, the belt of surf is considerably lower than the 
general bed of the ocean, and this latter now towered above us, a high, black, 
mountainous ridge. If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale you can form 
no idea of the confusion of mind occasioned by the wind and spray together. 
They blind, deafen and strangle you, and take away all power of action or reflec- 
tion. But we were now, in a great measure, rid of these annoyances — just as 
death-condemned felons in prison are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them 
while their doom is yet uncertain. 

"How often we made the circuit of the belt, it is impossible to say. We 
careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than floating, get- 
ting gradually more and more into the middle of the surge, and then nearer and 
nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never let go of the ring- 
bolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on to a small empty water-cask, 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 243 

which had been securely lashed under the coop of the counter, and was the only 
thing on deck that had not been swept overboard when the gale first took us. 
As we approached the brink of the pit he let go his hold upon this, and made for 
the ring, from which, in the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, 
as it was not large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper 
grief than when I saw him attempt this act — although I knew he was a madman 
when he did it — a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however, 
to contest the point with him. I knew it could make no difference whether 
either of us held on at all, so I let him have the bolt, and went astern to the cask. 
This there was no great difficulty in doing, for the smack flew round steadily 
enough, and upon an even keel, only swaying to and fro with the immense 
sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had I secured myself in my new 
position when we gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the 
abyss. I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over. 

"As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent I had instinctively tightened 
my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I dared not 
open them, while I expected instant destruction, and I wondered that I was not 
already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment after moment 
elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased, and the motion of the 
vessel seemed much as it had been before while in the belt of foam, with the 
exception that she now lay more along. I took courage, and looked once again 
upon the scene. 

"Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and admiration with 
which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic, mid- 
way down, upon the interior surface of a funnel vast in circumference, prodigious 
in depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony 
but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun around, and for the gleam- 
ing and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays of the full moon, from that 
circular rift amid the clouds which I have already described, streamed in a flood of 
golden glory along the black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses 
of the abyss. 

"At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately. The 
general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When I recovered my- 
self a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this direction I 
was able to obtain an unobstructed view from the manner in which the smack 
hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She was quite upon an even keel — 
that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with that of the water — but this 
latter sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to 
be lying upon our beam-ends. I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I 
had scarcely more difficulty in maintaining my hold and footing in this situation 



244 BEST TM I \GS FROM AMERICAX LITERATURE 

than if we had been upon a dead level, and this, 1 suppose, was owing- to the 
speed at whieh we revolved. 

■"The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound 
gulf ; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on account of a thick mist in 
whieh everything there was enveloped, and over which there hung a magnificent 
rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which Mussulmans say is the only 
pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist or spray was no doubt occa- 
sioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel as they all met together at 
the bottom, but the yell that went up to the heavens from out of that mist I dare 
not attempt to describe. 

"Our first slide iiUo the al\vss itself, from the belt of foam above, had carried 
us a great distance down the slope, but our farther descent was by no means 
proportionate. Round and round we swept — not with any uniform movement, 
but in dizzying swings and jerks, that sent us sometimes only a few hundred 
yards, sometimes nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our progress down- 
ward at each revolution was slow, but very perceptible. 

"Looking about me upon the wide waste of liciuid ebony on which we were 
thus borne. I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the embrace of 
the whirl. Both above and below us were visible fragments of vessels, large 
masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with many smaller articles, such as 
pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels, and staves. I have already de- 
scribed the unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of my original terrors. 
It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to my dreadful doom. 
1 now began to watch, with a strange interest, the numerous things that floated 
in our company. 1 iiiust have been delirious, for I even sought amusement in 
speculating upon the relative velocities of their several descents toward the foam 
below. 'This fir-tree,' I found myself at one time saying, 'will certainly be the 
next thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears,' and then I was disap- 
pointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship overtook it and went 
down before. At length, after making several guesses of this nature and being 
deceived in all, this fact — the fact of my invariable miscalculation — set me upon a 
train of reflection that made my limbs again tremble and my heart beat heavily 
once more. 

"It was not a new terror that thus affected me. but the dawn of a more excit- 
ing //()/>('. This hope arose partly from memory and partly from present observa- 
tion. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter that strewed the coast 
of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoe-strom. 
By far the greater number of the articles were shattered in the most extraordinary 
way — so chafed and roughened as to have the appearance of being stuck full of 
splinters — but then T distinctly recollected that there were some of them which 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 245 

were not disfigured at all. Now I could not account for this difference except by 
supposing that the roughened fragments were the only ones which had been 
completely absorbed — that the others had entered the whirl at so late a period of the 
tide, or, for some reason, had descended so slowly after entering, that they did not 
reach the bottom before the turn of the flood came, or of the ebb, as the case 
might be. I conceived it possible, in either instance, that they might thus be 
whirled up again to the level of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those 
which had been drawn in more early, or absorbed more rapidly. I made also 
three important observations. The first was that, as a general rule, the larger 
the bodies were, the more rapid their descent ; the second that, between two 
masses of equal extent, the one spherical and the other of any other shape, the su- 
periority in speed of descent was with the sphere ; the third, that, between two 
masses of equal size, the one cylindrical and the other of any other shape, the 
cylinder was absorbed more slowly. Since my escape I have had several con- 
versations on this subject with an old schoolmaster of the district, and it was from 
him that I learned the use of the words 'cylinder' and 'sphere.' He explained to 
me — although I have forgotten the explanation — how wdiat I observed was in 
fact the natural consequence of the forms of the floating fragments, and showed 
me how it happened that a cylinder swimming in a vortex offered more resist- 
ance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty than an equally bulky 
body of any form whatever. 

"There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in enforcing 
these observations and rendering me anxious to turn them to account, and this 
was that at every revolution we passed something like a barrel, or else the yard 
or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things which had been on our level 
when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the whirlpool, Avere now high 
up above us, and seemed to have moved but little from their original station. 

"I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to the 
water-cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter, and to throw 
myself with it into the water. I attracted my brother's attention by signs, 
pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and did everything in my power 
to make him understand what I was about to do. I thought at length that he 
comprehended my design, but, whether this was the case or not, he shook his 
head despairingly and refused to move from his station by the ring-bolt. It was 
impossible to reach him — the emergency admitted of no delay — and so, with a 
bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of 
the lashings which secured it to the counter, and precipitated myself with it into 
the sea without another moment's hesitation. 

"The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself 
who now tell you this tale — as you see that I did escape — and as you are already 



246 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

in possession of the mode in which this escape was effected, and must therefore 
anticipate all that I have further to say, I will bring my story quickly to a con- 
clusion. It might have been an hour or thereabout after my quitting the smack 
when, having descended to a vast distance beneath me, it made three or four wild 
gyrations in rapid succession, and, bearing my loved brother with it. plunged 
headlong and forever into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was 
attached sunk very little farther than half the distance between the bottom of the 
gulf and the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great change took place 
in the character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel be- 
came momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew gradually 
less and less violent. By degrees the froth and the rainbow disappeared, and 
the bottom of the gulf seemed slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had 
gone down, and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found 
myself on the surface of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden. and 
above the spot where the pool of the Moskoe-strom had been. It was the hour 
of the slack, but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of 
the hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Strom, and in a few 
minutes was hurried down the coast into the 'grounds' of the fishermen. A boat 
picked me up. exhausted from the fatigue and (now that the danger was removed) 
speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were 
my old mates and daily companions, but they knew me no more than they would 
have known a traveler from the spirit-land. My hair, which, had been raven- 
black the day before, was as white as you see it now. They say. too. that the 
whole expression of my countenance had changed. I told them my story ; they 
did not believe it. I now tell it to you, and I can scarcely expect you to put more 
faith in it than did the merrv fishermen of Lofoden." 



'^at^^f 




% 




BUST OF 

EDGAR ALLAN POE 



247 



248 BEST THINGS FROAl AMERICAN LITERATURE 

THE TELL-TALE HEART 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

RUE ! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am ; but 
why zcill you say that I am mad? The disease has sharpened my 
senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense 
of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. 
I heard many things in hell How, then, am I mad? Harken ! and 
observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story. 
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once con- 
ceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there 
was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never 
given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye ! Yes, it 
was this ! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye with a 
film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, 
very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid 
myself of the eye forever. 

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But 
you should have seen inc. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with 
what caution, with what foresight, with what dissimulation I went to work ! I 
was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. 
And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it — oh, 
so gently ! And then when I had made an opening sufftcient for my head I put 
in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust 
in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in ! 
I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's 
sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that 
I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha ! would a madman have been so wise 
as this ? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cau- 
tiouslv — oh, so cautiously — cautiously (for the hinges creaked). I undid it just 
so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven 
long nights, every night just at midnight ; but I found the eye always closed, and 
so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me, 
but his evil eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the 
chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, 
and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



?49 



very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked 
in upon him while he slept. 

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the 
door. A watch's minute-hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never be- 
fore that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could 
scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the 
door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I 
fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed 
suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. His 
room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close 
fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the open- 
ing of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. 

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped 
upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out, "Who's 
there?" 

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a 
nuiscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up 
in bed, listening — just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death 
watches in the wall. 

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal 
terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief — oh, no! It was the low stifled 
sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I 
knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, 
it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the ter- 
rors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, 
and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying 
awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears 
had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them 
causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing but the 
wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a 
cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he has been trying to comfort 
himself with these suppositions ; but he had found all in vain. x\ll in vain, be- 
cause Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him 
and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unper- 
ceived shadow that caused him to feel — although he neither saw nor heard — to 
fed the presence of my head within the room. 

When I had waited a long time, very patiently without hearing him lie down, 
I resolved to open a little — a very, very little — crevice in the lantern. So I opened 
it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until at length a single dim 



250 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

rav like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the 
vulture eye. 

It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw 
it with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled 
the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man's face 
or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned 
spot. 

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over- 
acuteness of the senses? Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick 
sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound 
well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the 
beating of a drum stimulates the soldier to courage. 

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the 
lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. 
Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, 
and louder and louder, every instant. The old man's terror must have been ex- 
treme ! It grew louder. I say, louder every moment ! — do you mark me well ? 
I have told you that I am nervous : so I am. And now at the dead hour of the 
night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this ex- 
cited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet. for some minutes longer I refrained 
and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder ! I thought the heart 
must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by 
a neighbor ! The old man's hour had come ! With a loud yell, I threw open the 
lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once only. In that in- 
stant I dragged him to the floor and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then 
smiled gaily to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat 
on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me ; it would not be heard 
through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the 
bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my 
hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. 
He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. 

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the 
wise precaution I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and 
I worked hastily, but in silence. I took up three planks from the flooring of the 
chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards 
so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye — not even his — could have detected 
anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind, no blood 
spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. 

When I had made an end of these labors it was four o'clock — still dark as 
midnisfht. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking: at the street 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 251 

door. I went down to open it with a light heart — for what had I now to fear? 
There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as 
officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night ; 
suspicion of foul play had been aroused ; information had been lodged at the 
police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. 

I smiled — for zvhat had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The 
shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in 
the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search — search 
well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, 
undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the 
room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the 
wild audacity of my perfect trimph, placed my own seat upon the very spot be- 
neath which reposed the corpse of the victim. 

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was sin- 
gularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily they chatted of familiar 
things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My 
head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears ; but still they sat, and still chatted. 
The ringing became more distinct : it continued and became more distinct ; I 
talked more freely to get rid of the feeling ; but it continued and gained definite- 
ness — until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. 

No doubt I now grew very pale ; but I talked more fluently, and with a 
heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was a 
low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a zvatch makes zvhcn enveloped in 
cotton. I gasped for breath — and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more 
quickly, more vehemently ; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued 
about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations ; but the noise steadily 
increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with 
heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men ; but the noise 
steadily increased. O God ! what could I do ? I foamed, I raved, I swore ! I 
swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, 
but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder, louder, 
louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they 
heard not? Almighty God! — no, no! They heard! they suspected! they knezv! 
they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. 
But anything was better than this agony ! Anything was more tolerable than 
this derision ! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer ! I felt that I 
must scream or die ! and now — again ! — hark ! louder ! louder ! louder ! louder! 

"Villains !" I shrieked, "dissemble no more ! I admit the deed ! Tear up 
the planks ! — here, here ! It is the beating of his hideous hearj; !" 




RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



252 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 253 



THE SKY 

BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 

(Born at Hingham, IMass., July 2, 1825) 

The sky is a drinking cup 

That was overturned of old, 
And it pours in the eyes of men 

Its wine of airy gold. 
We drink that wine all day, 

Till the last drop is drained up, 
And are lighted to our bed 

By the jewels in the cup. 



it. It-CGji).:) 




NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 



254 



BEST THIXGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 255 



THE REVELATION 

FROM "THE SCARL,ET I^ETTER" 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

( Born at Salem, Mass., Jul}' 4, 1804 ; died at Plymouth, N. H,, May 18, 1864 ) 

„ (74^^ m Y this time the preHminary prayer had been offered in the meeting- 
^ house, and the accents of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale were heard 




commencing his discourse. An irresistible feeHng kept Hester near 
the spot. As the sacred edifice was too much thronged to admit 
another auditor, she took up her position close beside the scaffold of 
the pillory. It was in sufficient proximity to bring the whole sermon 
to her ears, in the shape of an indistinct but varied murmur and flow of the 
minister's very peculiar voice. 

This vocal organ was in itself a rich endowment ; insomuch that a listener, 
comprehending nothing of the language in which the preacher spoke, might still 
have been swayed to and fro by the mere tone and cadence. Like all other music, 
it breathed passion and pathos, and emotions high or tender, in a tongue native 
to the human heart, wherever educated. Muffled as the sound was by its passage 
through the church walls; Hester Prynne listened with such intentness, and sym- 
pathized so intimately, that the sermon had throughout a meaning for her, en- 
tirely apart from its indistinguishable words. These, perhaps, if more distinctly 
heard, might have been only a grosser medium, and have clogged the spiritual 
sense. Now she caught the low undertone, as of the wind sinking down to repose 
itself ; then ascended with it, as it rose through progressive gradations of sweet- 
ness and power, imtil its volume seemed to envelope her with an atmosphere of 
awe and solemn grandeur. And yet, majestic as the voice sometimes became, 
there was forever in it an essential character of plaintiveness. A loud or low ex- 
pression of anguish, the whisper, or the shriek, as it might be conceived, of suf- 
fering humanity, that touched a sensibility in every bosom ! At times this deep 
strain of pathos was all that could be heard, and scarcely heard, sighing amid a 
desolate silence. But even when the minister's voice grew high and command- 
ing ; when it gushed irrepressibly upward ; when it assumed its utmost breadth 
and power, so overfilling the church as to burst its way through the solid walls 
and diffuse itself in the open air, still, if the auditor listened intently, and for the 
purpose, he could detect the same cry of pain. What was it? The complaint of 
a human heart, sorrow-laden, perchance guilty, telling its secret, whether of guilt 



256 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

or sorrow, to the great heart of mankind, beseeching its sympathy or forgiveness, 
at every moment, in each accent, and never in vain ! It was this profound and 
continual undertone that gave the clergyman his most appropriate power. 

During all this time Hester stood, statue-like, at the foot of the scafifold. If 
the minister's voice had not kept her there, there would nevertheless have been 
an inevitable magnetism on that spot, whence she dated the first hour of her life 
of ignominy. There was a sense within her — too ill-defined to be made a 
thought, but weighing heavily on her mind — that her whole orb of life, both be- 
fore and after, was connected with this spot, as with the one point that gave it 
unity. 

Little Pearl, meanwhile, had quitted her mother's side, and was playing at 
her own will about the market-place. She made the sombre crowd cheerful by 
her erratic and glistening ray ; even as a bird of bright plumage illuminates a 
whole tree of dusky foliage by darting to and fro, half seen and half concealed 
amid the twilight of the clustering leaves. She had an undulating, but, often- 
times, a sharp and irregular movement. It indicated the restless vivacity of her 
spirit, which to-day was doubly indefatigable in its tiptoe dance, because it was 
played upon and vibrated with her mother's disquietude. Whenever Pearl saw 
anything to excite her ever-active and wandering curiosity, she flew thitherward, 
and, as we might say, seized upon that man or thing as her own property, so far 
as she desired it, but without yielding the minutest degree of control over her 
motions in requital. The Puritans looked on, and, if they smiled, were none the 
less inclined to pronounce the child a demon offspring, from the indescribable 
charm of beauty and eccentricity that shone through her little figure, and sparkled 
with its activity. She ran and looked the wild Indian in the face, and he grew 
conscious of a nature wilder than his own. Thence, with native audacity, but still 
with a reserve as characteristic, she flew into the midst of a group of mariners, the 
swarthy-cheeked wild men of the ocean, as the Indians were of the land ; and 
they gazed wonderingly and admiringly at Pearl, as if a flake of the sea-foam had 
taken the shape of a little maid, and were gifted with a soul of the sea-fire, that 
flashes beneath the prow in the night-time. 

One of these seafaring men — the shipmaster, indeed, who had spoken to Hes- 
ter Prynne — was so smitten with Pearl's aspect that he attempted to lay hands 
upon her, with purpose to snatch a kiss. Finding it as impossible to touch her 
as to catch a humming-bird in the air, he took from his hat the gold chain that 
was twisted about it, and threw it to the child. Pearl immediately twined it 
around her neck and waist with such happy skill that, once seen there, it became 
a part of her, and it was difficult to imagine her without it. 

"Thy mother is yonder woman with the scarlet letter," said the seaman. 
'■\\'ilt thou carry a message from me?" 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 



25; 



"If the message pleases me I will," answered Pearl. 

"Then tell her," rejoined he, "that I spake again with the black-a-visaged, 
hump-shouldered old doctor, and he engages to bring his friend, the gentleman 
she wots of, aboard with him. So let thy mother take no thought, save for her- 
self and thee. Wilt thou tell her this, thou witch-baby ?" 

"Mistress Hibbins says my father is the Prince of the Air!" cried Pearl, with 
a naughty smile. "If thou callest me that ill name I shall tell him of thee, and he 
will chase thy ship with a tempest !" 

Pursuing a zigzag course across the market-place, the child returned to her 




HAWTHORNE'S BIRTHPL.\CE 



mother, and communicated what the mariner had said. Hester's strong, calm, 
steadfastly enduring spirit almost sank at last on beholding this dark and grim 
countenance of an inevitable doom, which — at the moment when a passage 
seemed to open for the minister and herself out of their labyrinth of misery — 
showed itself, with an unrelenting smile, right in the midst of their path. 

With her mind harassed by the terrible perplexity in which the shipmaster's 
"ntelligence involved her, she was also subjected to another trial. There were 



258 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

many people present, from the country round about, who had often heard of the 
scarlet letter, and to whom it had been made terrific by a hundred false or exag- 
gerated rumors, but who had never beheld it with their own bodily eyes. These, 
after exhausting other modes of amusement, now thronged about Hester Prynne 
with rude and boorish intrusiveness. Unscrupulous as it was, however, it could 
not bring them nearer than a circuit of several yards. At that distance they ac- 
cordingly stood, fixed there by centrifugal force of the repugnance which the 
mystic symbol inspired. The whole gang of sailors, likewise, observing the press 
of spectators, and learning the purport of the scarlet letter, came and thrust their 
sunburnt and desperado-looking faces into the ring. Even the Indians were af- 
fected by a sort of cold shadow of the white man's curiosity, and, gliding through 
the crowd, fastened their snake-like eyes on Hester's bosom, conceiving, per- 
haps, that the wearer of this brilliantly embroidered badge must needs be a per- 
sonage of high dignity among her people. Lastly, the inhabitants of the town 
(their own interest in this worn-out subject languidly reviving itself, by sympathy 
with what they saw others feel) lounged idly to the same quarter, and tormented 
Hester Prynne, perhaps more than all the rest, with their cool, well-acquainted 
gaze at her familiar shame. Hester saw and recognized the self-same faces of 
that group of matrons, who had awaited her forthcoming from the prison-door, 
seven years ago ; all save one. the youngest and only compassionate among them, 
whose burial robe she had since made. At the final hour, when she was so soon 
to fling aside the burning letter, it had strangely become the centre of more re- 
mark and excitement, and was thus made to sear her breast more painfully than 
any time since the first day she put it on. 

While Hester stood in that magic circle of ignominy, where the cunning 
cruelty of her sentence seemed to have fixed her forever, the admirable preacher 
was looking down from the sacred pulpit upon an audience whose very inmost 
spirits had yielded to his control. The sainted minister in the church ! The 
woman of the scarlet letter in the market-place ! What imagination would have 
been irreverent enough to surmise that the same scorching stigma was on them 
both ! 

^ sj; ^ :p ^ Jjc :^ 

The eloquent voice, on which the souls of the listening audience had been 
borne aloft as on the swelling waves of the sea, at length came to a pause. There 
was a momentary silence, profound as what should follow the utterance of oracles. 
Then ensued a murmur and half-hushed tumult, as if the auditors, released from 
the high spell that had transported them into the region of another's mind, were 
returning into themselves, with all their awe and wonder still heavy on them. In 
a moment more the crowd began to gush forth from the doors of the church. 
Now that there was an end, they needed other breath, more fit to support th'e 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 259 

gross and earthly life into which they relapsed, than that atmosphere which the 
preacher had converted into words of flame, and had burdened with the rich fra- 
grance of his thought. 

In the open air their rapture broke into speech. The street and the market- 
place absolutely babbled, from side to side, with applauses of the minister. His 
hearers could not rest until they had told one another of what each knew better 
than he could tell or hear. According to their united testimony, never had man 
spoken in so wise, so high and so holy a spirit as he that spake this day ; nor had 
inspiration ever breathed through mortal lips more evidently than it did through 
his. Its influence could be seen, as it were, descending upon him, and possessing 
him, and continually lifting him out of the written discourse that lay before him, 
and filling him with ideas that must have been as marvelous to himself as to his 
audience. His subject, it appeared, had been the relation between the Deity 
and the communities of mankind, with a special reference to the New England 
which they were here planting in the wilderness. And, as he drew towards the 
close, a spirit as of prophecy had come upon him, constraining him to its purpose 
as mightily as the old prophets of Israel were constrained, only with this differ- 
ence that, whereas the Jewish seers had denounced judgments and ruin on their 
country, it was his mission to foretell a high and glorious destiny for the newly 
gathered people of the Lord. But, throughout it all, and through the whole dis- 
course, there had been a deep, sad undertone of pathos, which could not be inter- 
preted otherwise than as the natural regret of one soon to pass away. Yes, their 
minister whom they so loved — and who so loved them all that he could not depart 
heavenward without a sigh — had the foreboding of untimely death upon him, and 
would soon leave them in their tears ! This idea of his transitory stay on earth 
gave the last emphasis to the effect which the preacher had produced ; it was as if 
an angel, in his passage to the skies, had shaken his bright wings over the people 
for an instant, and had shed down a shower of golden truths upon them. 

Thus, there had come to the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale — as to most men, 
in their various spheres, though seldom recognized until they see it far behind 
them — an epoch of life more brilliant and full of triumph than any previous one, 
or than any which could hereafter be. He stood, at this moment, on the very 
proudest eminence of superiority, to which the gifts of intellect, rich lore, prevail- 
ing eloquence, and a reputation of whitest sanctity, could exalt a clergyman in 
New England's earliest days, when the professional character was of itself a lofty 
pedestal. Such was the. position which the minister occupied, as he bowed his 
head forward on the cushions of the pulpit, at the close of his Election Sermon. 
Meanwhile Hester Prynne was standing beside the scafTold of the pillory, with the 
scarlet letter still burning on her breast ! 

Now was heard again the clangor of music, and the> measured tramp of the 



26o BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

military escort, issuing from the church door. The procession was to be mar- 
shalled thence to the town-hall, where a solemn banquet would complete the cere- 
monies of the day. 

Once more, therefore, the train of venerable and majestic fathers was seen 
moving through a broad pathway of the people, who drew back reverently, on 
either side, as the Governor and magistrates, the old and wise men, the holy min- 
isters, and all that were eminent and renowned advanced into the midst of them. 
When they were fairly in the market-place, their presence was greeted by a shout. 
This — though doubtless it might acquire additional force and volume from the 
childlike loyalty which the age rewarded to its rulers — was felt to be an irrepress- 
ible outburst of enthusiasm kindled in the auditors by that high strain of elo- 
quence which was yet reverberating in their ears. Each felt the impulse in him- 
self and, in the same breath, caught it from his neighbor. Within the church it 
had hardly been kept down ; beneath the sky it peaied upward to the zenith. 
There were human beings enough, and enough of highly-wrought and symphoni- 
ous feeling, to produce that more impressive sound than the organ tones of the 
blast, or the thunder, or the roar of the sea ; even that mighty swell of many 
voices, blended into one great voice by the universal impulse which makes like- 
wise one vast heart out of the many. Never, from the soil of New England, had 
gone up such a shout ! Never, on New England soil, had stood the man hon- 
ored by his mortal brethren as the preacher ! 

How fared it with him then ? Were there not the brilliant particles of a halo 
in the air about his head? So etherealized by spirit as he Avas, and so apotheo- 
sized by worshiping admirers, did his footsteps, in the procession, really tread 
upon the dust of earth ? 

As the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward all eyes were 
turned towards the point where the minister was seen to approach among them. 
The shout die-d into a murmur, as one portion of the crowd after another obtained 
a glimpse of him. How feeble and pale he looked, amid all his triumph ! The 
energy — or say, rather, the inspiration which had held him up until he should 
have delivered the sacred message that brought its own strength along with it 
from Heaven — was withdrawn, now that it had so faithfully performed its office. 
The glow, which they had just before beheld burning on his cheek, was extin- 
guished, like a flame that sinks down hopelessly among the late-decaying embers. 
It seemed hardly the face of a man alive, with such a deathlike hue ; it was hardly 
a man with life in him that tottered on his path so nervelessly, yet tottered, and 
did not fall. 

One of his clerical brethren — it was the venerable John Wilson — observing 
the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was left by the retiring wave of intellect and 
sensibility, stepped forward hastily to ofifer his support. The minister tremu- 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 



261 



lously, but decidedly, repelled the old man's arm. He still walked onward, if that 
movement could be so described, which rather resembled the wavering effort of 
an infant with its mother's arms in view, outstretched to tempt him forward. 
And now, almost imperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress, he had 
come opposite the well-remembered and weather-darkened scaffold, where, long 
since, with all that dreary lapse of time between, Hester Prynne had encountered 
the world's ignominious stare. There stood Hester, holding little Pearl by the 
hand ! And there was the scarlet letter on her breast ! The minister here made 




THE MANSK 



a pause, although the music still played the stately and rejoicing march to which 
the procession moved. It summoned him onward — onward to the festival ! — but 
here he made a pause. 

Bellingham for the last few moments had kept an anxious eye upon him. 
He now left his own place in the procession, and advanced to give assistance, 
judging, from Mr. Dimmesdale's aspect, that he must otherwise inevitably fall. 
But there was something in the latter's expression that warned back the magis- 
trate, although a man not readily obeying the vague intimations that pass from 



262 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

one spirit to another. The crowd, meanwhile, looked on with awe and wonder. 
This earthly faintness was, in their view, only another phase of the minister's 
celestial strength ; nor would it have seemed a miracle too high to be wrought 
for one so holy, had he ascended before their eyes, waxing dimmer and brighter, 
and fading at last into the light of heaven. 

He turned towards the scafifold, and stretched forth his arms. 

"Hester," said he, ''come hither! Come, my little Pearl!" 

It was a ghastly look with which he regarded them ; but there was some- 
thing at once tender and strangely triumphant in it. The child, with the bird-like 
motion which was one of her characteristics flew to him, and clasped her arms 
about his knees. Hester Prynne slowly, as if impelled by inevitable fate, and 
against her strongest will, likewise drew near, but paused before she reached him. 
At this instant old Roger Chillingworth thrust himself through the crowd — or, 
perhaps, so dark, disturbed, and evil, was his look, he rose up out of some nether 
region — to snatch back his victim from what he sought to do ! Be that as it 
might, the old man rushed forward and caught the minister by the arm. 

"Madman, hold! What is your purpose?" whispered he. "Wave back tliat 
woman ! Cast off this child I All shall be well ! Do not blacken your fame, 
and perish in dishonor I I can yet save you ! Would you bring infamy on your 
sacred profession?" 

"Ha, tempter! Methinks thou art too late!" answered the minister, en- 
countering his eye, fearfully, but firmly. "Thy power is not what it was ! With 
God's help, I shall escape thee now!" 

He again extended his hand to the woman of the scarlet letter. 

"Hester Prynne," cried he, with a piercing earnestness, "in the name of Hmi, 
so terrible and so merciful, who gives me grace at this last moment to do what, 
for my own heavy sin and miserable agony, I withheld myself from doing seven 
years ago — come hither now and twine thy strength about me! Thy strength, 
Hester, but let it be guided by the will which God hath granted me ! This 
wretched and wronged old man is opposing it with all his might! — with all his 
own might and the fiend's. Come, Hester, come ! Support me up yonder scaf- 
fold !" 

The crowd was in a tumult. The men of rank and dignity, who stood more 
immediately around the clergyman, were so taken by surprise, and so perplexed 
as to the purport of what they saw — unable to receive the explanation which most 
readily presented itself, or to imagine any other — that they remained silent and 
inactive spectators of the judgment which Providence seemed about to work. 
They beheld the minister, leaning on Hester's shoulder, and supported by her 
arm around him, approach the scafifold, and ascend its steps, while still the little 
hand of the sin-born child was clasped in his. Old Roger Chillingworth fol- 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 263 

lowed, as one intimately connected with the drama of guilt and sorrow in which 
they had all been actors, and well entitled, therefore, to be present at its closing 
scene. 

"?Iadst thou sought the whole earth over," said he, looking darkly at the 
clergyman, "there was no place so secret, no high place nor lowly place, where 
thou couldst have escaped me, save on this very scaffold !" 

"Thanks be to Him who hath led me thither !" answered the minister. 

Yet he trembled and turned to Hester with an expression of doubt and anx- 
iety in his eyes, not the less evidently betrayed, that there was a feeble smile upon 
his lips. 

"Is not this better," murmured he, "than what we dreamed of in the forest?" 

"I know not! I know not!" she hurriedly replied. "Better? Yea; so we 
may both die, and little Pearl die with us !" 

"For thee and Pearl, be it as God shall order," said the minister ; "and God is 
merciful ! Let me now do the will which He hath made plain before my sight. 
For, Hester, I am a dying man. So let me make haste to take my shame upon 
me !" 

Partly supported by Hester Prynne, and holding one hand of little Pearl's, 
the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale turned to the dignified and venerable rulers ; to the 
holy ministers, who were his brethren ; to the people, whose great heart was 
thoroughly appalled, yet overflowing with tearful sympathy, as knowing that 
some deep life-matter — which, if full of sin, was full of anguish and repentance 
likewise — was now to be laid open to them. The sun, but little past its meridian, 
shone down upon the clergyman, and gave a distinctness to his figure, as he stood 
out from all the earth, to put in his plea of guilty at the bar of Eternal Justice. 

"People of New England!" cried he, with a voice that rose over them, high, 
solemn and majestic, yet had always a tremor through it, and sometimes a shriek, 
struggling up out of a fathomless depth of remorse and woe, "ye that have loved 
me ! — ye that have deemed me holy ! — behold me here the one sinner of the world ! 
At last! at last! I stand upon the spot where, seven years since, I should have 
stood ; here, with this woman, whose arm, more than the little strength where- 
with I have crept hitherward, sustains me, at this dreadful moment, from grovel- 
ling down upon my face ! Lo, the scarlet letter which Hester wears ! Ye have 
all shuddered at it ! Wherever her walk hath been — wherever, so miserably bur- 
dened, she may have hoped to find repose — it hath cast a lurid gleam of awe and 
horrible repugnance round about her. But there stood one in the midst of you, 
at whose brand of sin and infamy ye have not shuddered !" 

It seemed at this point as if the minister must leave the remainder of his 
secret undisclosed, but he fought back the bodily weakness, and, still more, the 
faintness of heart that was striving for the mastery with him. He threw off all 



264 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

assistance, and stepped passionately forward a pace before the woman and the 
child. 

"It was on him !" he continued, with a kind of fierceness, so determined was 
he to speak out the whole. "God's eye beheld it ! The angels were forever 
pointing at it ! The devil knew it well, and fretted it continually with the touch 
of his burning finger ! But he hid it cunningly from men, and walked among you 
with the mien of a spirit ; mournful, because so pure in a sinful world ! and sad, 
because he missed his heavenly kindred ! Now, at the death-hour, he stands up 
before you ! He bids you look again at Hester's scarlet letter ! He tells you 
that, with all its mysterious horror, it is but the shadow of what he bears on his 
own breast, and that even this, his own red stigma, is no more than the type of 
what has seared his inmost heart ! Stand any here that question God's judgment 
on a sinner? Behold ! Behold a dreadful witness of it !" 

\\'ith a convulsive motion, he tore away the ministerial band from before his 
breast. It was revealed ! But it were irreverent to describe that revelation. 
For an instant the gaze of the horror-stricken multitude was concentred on the 
ghastly miracle, while the minister stood, with a flush of triumph in his face, as 
one who, in the crisis of acutest pain, had won a victory. Then, down he sank 
upon the scaffold. Hester partly raised him, and supported his head against her 
Ijosom. Old Roger Chillingworth knelt down beside him. with a blank, dull 
countenance, out of which the life seemed to have departed. 

"Thou hast escaped me !" he repeated more than once. "Thou hast es- 
caped me !" 

"May God forgive thee !" said the minister. "Thou, too. hast deeply sinned !" 

He withdrew his dying eyes from the old man, and fixed them on the woman 
and the child. 

"^ly little Pearl," said he. feebly, and there was a sweet and gentle smile over 
liis face, as of a spirit sinking into deep repose; nay, now that the burden was re- 
moved, it seemed almost as if he would be sportive with the child, "dear little 
Pearl, wilt thou kiss me now? Thou wouldst not, yonder, in the forest, but now 
thou wilt ?" 

Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief, in 
which the wild infant bore a part, had developed all her sympathies ; and as her 
tears fell upon her father's cheek, they were the pledge that she would grow up 
amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with the world, but be a woman 
in it. Towards her mother, too. Pearl's errand as a messenger of anguish was all 
fulfilled. 

"Hester," said the clergyman, "farewell!" 

"Shall we not meet again?" whispered she, bending her face close to his. 
"Shall we not spend our immortal life together? Surely, surely, we have ran- 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 



265 



somed one another, with all this woe ? Thou lookest far into eternity, with those 
bright dying eyes! Then tell me what thou seest." 

"Hush, Hester, hush !" said he, with tremulous solemnity. "The law we 
i)roke ! the sin here so awfully revealed! Let these alone be in thy thoughts! I 
fear ! I fear ! It may be that, when we forgot our God, when we violated our 
reverence each for the other's soul, it was thenceforth vain to hope that we could 
meet hereafter in an everlasting and pure reunion. God knows, and He is merci- 
ful ! He hath proved His mercy, most of all, in my afflictions. By giving me 
this burning torture to bear upon my breast ! By sending yonder dark and ter- 
rible old man, to keep the torture always at red-heat ! By bringing me hither, to 
(lie this death of triumphant ignominy before the people ! Had either of these 
agonies been wanting I had been lost forever ! Praised be His name ! His will 
be done ! Farewell !" 

That final word came forth with the minister's expiring breath. The multi- 
tude, silent till then, broke out in a strange, deep voice of awe and wonder, which 
could not as yet find utterance, save in this murmur that rolled so heavily after 
the departed spirit. 




F. HOPKLXSON S^HITH 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAX LITERATURE 267 



A BOARD FENCE LOSES A PLANK 

BEING CHAPTER II. FROM "TOM GROGAN " 

BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH 

(Born at Baltimore, Md., October 23, 1S3S) 

'HE work on the sea-wall progressed. The coffer-dam which had been 
built by driving- into the mud of the bottom a double row of heavy 
tongued and grooved planking in two parallel rows, bulk-heading 
each one, had been filled with concrete to low-water mark, absorbing 
not only the contents of the delayed scow, but two subsequent cargoes, 
both of which had been unloaded by Tom Grogan. 

To keep out the leakage, steam-pumps were kept going night and day. 

By dint of hard work the upper masonry of the wall had been laid to the top 
course, ready for the coping-stone, and there was now every prospect that the last 
stone would be lowered into place before the winter storms set in. 

The shanty — a temporary structure, good only for the life of the work — 
rested on a set of stringers laid on extra piles driven outside of the working-plat- 
form. \Mien the sub-marine work lies miles from shore, a shanty is the only 
shelter for the men. its interior being fitted up with sleeping-bunks, with one end 
partitioned off for a kitchen and a storage-room. This is filled with extra blocks, 
^Manila rope, portable forges, tools, shovels, barrows — all perishable property. 

For this present sea-wall — an amphibious sort of structure, with one foot on 
land and the other in the water — the shanty was of light pine boards, roofed over, 
and made water-tight by tarred paper. The bunks had been omitted, for most of 
the men boarded in the village. This gave increased space for the storage of 
tools, besides room for a desk containing the Government working-drawings and 
specifications, pay-rolls, etc. In addition to its door, fastened at night with a 
padlock, and its one glass window, secured by a tenpenny nail, it had a flap win- 
dow, hinged at the bottom. When this was propped up with a barrel stave it 
made a counter from which to pay the men. the paymaster standing inside. 

Babcock was sitting on a keg of dock spikes inside this working shanty some 
days after he had discovered Tom's identity, watching his bookkeeper preparing 
the pay-roll, when a face was thrust through the square of the window. It was 
not a prepossessing face, rather pudgy and sleek, with uncertain, drooping mouth, 
and eyes that always looked over one's head when he talked. It was the prop- 
erty of Mr. Peter Lathers, the yardmaster of the depot. 

By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers, Boston. 



268 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"When vou're done payin' off maybe you'll step outside, sir," he said, in a 
confiding tone. "I got a friend of mine who wants to know you. He's a steve- 
dore, and does the work to the fort. He's never done nothin" for you. but I told 
him next time you come down I'd fetch him over. Say. Dan," beckoning with 
his head over his shoulder; then, turning to Babcock. "I make you acquainted, 
sir, with Mr. Daniel McGaw." 

Two faces now filled the window — Lather's and that of a red-headed man in 
a straw hat. 

"AH right. I'll attend to you in a moment. Glad to see you. Mr. McGaw," 
said Babcock, rising from the keg and looking out over his bookkeeper's 
shoulder. 

Lather's friend proved to be a short, big-boned, square-shouldered Irish- 
man, about forty years of age, dressed in a once black broadcloth suit wuth frayed 
buttonholes, the lapels and vest covered with grease spots. xAround his collar, 
which had done service for several days, was twisted a red tie decorated with a 
glass pin. His face was spattered with blue powder marks, as if from some 
(|uarry explosion. A lump of a mustache dyed dark brown concealed his upper 
lip, making all the more conspicuous the bushy, sandy-colored eyebrows that 
shaded a pair of treacherous eyes. His mouth was coarse and filled with teeth 
half worn off, like those of an old horse. When he smiled these opened slowly 
like a vise. Whatever of humor played about this opening lost its life instantly 
when these jaws clicked together again. 

The hands were big and strong, wrinkled and seamed, their rough backs 
spotted like a toad's, the wrist covered with long spidery hairs. 

Babcock noticed particularly his low, flat forehead when he removed his hat, 
and the dry, red hair growing close to the eyebrows. 

"I wuz a-sp'akin' to me fri'nd Mishter Lathers about doin" yer wurruk." be- 
gan McGaw, resting one foot on a pile of barrow-planks, his elbow on his knee. 
"I does all the haulin' to the foort. Surgint Dufify knows me. I wuz along here 
las' week, an' see ye wuz put back fer stone. If I'd had the job. I'd had her un- 
loaded two days befoore." 

"You're dead right. Dan." said Lathers, with an expression of disgust, 
"This woman business aint no good, nohow. She ought to be over her tubs." 

"She does her work, though," Babcock said, beginning to see the drift of 
things. 

"Oh. I don't be sayin' she don't. She's a dacent woman anough : but thim 
b'ys as is a-runnin" her carts is raisin' all the toime." 

"And then look at the teams." chimed in Lathers, with a jerk of his thumb 
toward the dock — "a lot of staggerin' horse-car wrecks you couldn't sell to a glue 



F. HOPKINSON SMITH 269 

factory. That big gray she had a-hoistin' is bhnd of an eye and sprung so forrard 
he can't hardly stand." 

At this moment the refrain of a song from somewhere near the board fence 
came wafting through the air : 

"An" he wiped up the floor wid AIcGeechy." 

jMcGaw turned his head in search of the singer. 

"What are your rates per ton?" asked Babcock. 

"We're a-chargin' forty cints/' said McGaw, deferring to Lathers, as if for 
confirmation. 

"Who's we ?" 

"The Stevedores Union." 

"But Airs. Grogan is doing it for thirty," said Babcock, looking straight 
into AIcGaw's eyes, and speaking slowly and deliberately. 

"Yis, I beared she wuz a-cuttin' rates ; but she can't live at it. If I does it, 
it'll be done roight, an' no throuble." 

"I'll think it over," said Babcock, quietly, turning on his heel. The mean- 
ness of the whole afifair offended him — two big, strong men fighting a woman 
with no protector but her two hands. AIcGaw should never lift a shovel for him. 

Again the song floated out ; this time it seemed nearer : 

* * * wid AIcGeechy — 

AIcGeechy of the Fourth." 

"Dan AIcGaw's givin it to you straight," said Lathers, stopping for a last 
word, his face thrust through the window again. "He's rigged for this business, 
and Grogan aint in it with him. If she wants her work done right, she ought to 
send down something with a mustache." 

Here the song subsided in a prolonged chuckle. AlcGaw turned, and 
caught sight of a boy's head — a mop of black hair thrust through a crownless hat 
— leaning over a cement barrel. Lathers turned, too, and instantly lowered his 
voice. The head ducked out of sight. In the flash glance Babcock caught of 
the face he recognized the boy Cully, driver of the big gray. It was evident to 
Babcock that Cully at diat moment was bubbling over with fun. Indeed, this 
waif of the streets, sometimes called James Finnegan, was seldom known to be 
otherwise. 

"Thet's the wurrst rat in the stables," said McGaw, his face reddening with 
anger. "What kin ye do whin ye're a-buckin' ag'in a lot uv divils loike him ?" 
speaking through the window to Babcock. "Come out uv thet," he called to 
Cully, "or I'll bu'st yer jaw, ye sneakin' rat." 



2JO BEST THINGS FROAI AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Cully came out. but not in obedience to ]McGa\Y or Lathers. Indeed, he 
paid no more attention to either of those distinguished diplomats than if they had 
been two cement barrels standing on end. His face, too, had lost its irradiating 
smile ; not a wrinkle or a pucker ruffled its calm surface. His clay-soiled hat was 
in his hand — a very dirty hand, by the way, with the torn cuff of his shirt hanging 
loosely over it. His trousers bagged all over — knees, seat and waist. On his 
stockingless feet were a pair of sun-baked, brick-colored shoes. His ankles were 
as dark as mahogany. His throat and chest were bare, the skin being tanned to 
leather wherever the sun could work its way through the holes in his garments. 
From out of this combination of dust and rags shone a pair of piercing black eyes, 
snapping with fun. 

"I come up fer de mont's pay," he said coolly to Babcock, the corner of his 
eye glued to Lathers. "De ole woman said ye'd hev it ready." 

"Mrs. Grogan's?" asked the bookkeeper, shuffling over his envelopes. 

"Yep. Tom Grogan." 

"Can you sign the pay-roll?" 

"You bet," with an eye still out for Lathers. It was this flea-like alertness 
that always saved Mr. Finnegan's scalp. 

"Where did you learn to write — at school?" asked Babcock, noting the boy's 
fearless independence with undisguised pleasure. 

"Naw. Patsy an' me studies nights. Pop MulHns teaches us ; he's de ole 
woman's farder what she brung out from Ireland. He's a-livin' up ter de she- 
bang ; dey're all livin' dere — Jinnie an' de ole woman an" Patsy — all 'cept me an' 
Carl. I bunks in wid de big gray. Say, mister, ye'd oughter git outer Patsy ; 
he's the little kid wid de crutch. He's a corker, he is ; reads po'try an' everythin'. 
AMiere'll I sign ? Oh. yes, I see ; in dis 'ere square hole right alongside de ole 
woman's name," spreading his elbows, pen in hand, and affixing "James Finne- 
gan" to the collection of autographs. The next moment he was running along 
the dock, the money envelope tight in his hand, sticking out his tongue at Mc- 
Gaw, and calling to Lathers as he disappeared through the door in the fence : 
"Somp'n wid a mus-tache, somp'n wid a mus-tache," like a newsboy calling an 
extra. Then a stone grazed Lathers' ear. 

Lathers sprang through the gate, but the boy was halfway through the yard. 

Once out of Lathers' reach. Cully bounded up the road like a careering letter 
X. with arms and legs in the air. If there was any one thing that delighted the 
boy's soul, it was. to quote from his own picturesque vocabulary, "to set up a job 
on de ole woman." Here was his chance. Before he reached the stable he had 
planned the whole scene, even to the exact intonation of Lathers' voice when he 
referred to the dearth of mustaches in the Grogan household. Within a few min- 
utes of his arrival the details of the whole occurrence, word for word, with such 



F. HOPKINSON SMITH 



271 



picturesque additions as his own fertile imagination could invent, were common 
talk about the yard. 

Meanwhile Lathers had been called upon to direct a gang of laborers who 
were moving an enormous iron buoy-float down the cinder-covered path to the 
dock. Two of the men walked beside the buoy, steadying it with their hands. 
Lathers was leaning against the board fence of the shop whittling a stick, while 
the others worked. 

Suddenly there was an angry cry, and every man stood still. So did the 
buoy and the moving truck. 

"Where's the yardmaster — where's Pete Lathers?" 

It was Tom Grogan's voice. The next instant she broke through the crowd, 
brushing the men out of her way, and came straight toward him, head up, eyes 
blazing, her silk hood pushed back from her face, as if to give her air, her gray 
ulster open to her waist, her right hand bare of a glove. 

"Pete Lathers," she said, stopping in front of him, "why do ye want to be 
takin' the bread out of me children's mouths?" 

Lathers pulled himself together, the stick dropping from his hand: "Well, 
who said I did ? What have I got to do with your " 

"You've got enough to do with 'em to want 'em to starve — you and your 
friend McGaw. Have I ever hurt ye that ye should try an' sneak me business 
away from me? Ye know the fight I've made, standin' out on this dock many a 
day an' night in the cold an' wet, with nobody between Tom's children an' the 
street but these two hands, an' yet ye'd slink in like a dog to get me — " 

"Here, now, I ain't a-goin' to have no row. It's against orders, an' I'll call 
the yard-watch and throw you out if you make any fuss." 

"The yard-watch," with a look of supreme contempt, crowding him so closely 
that Lathers hugged the fence out of reach of her fist. "I can handle any two of 
'em, an' you, too, an' ye know it." 

By this time the gang had abandoned the buoy and were standing aghast, 
watching the fury of the Amazon. 

"When ye were out of a job yerself, an' discharged, didn't Tom go^to the 
fort and get ye on the pay-roll ag'in, when " 

"Well, who said he didn't ? Now, see here, don't make a muss ; the com- 
mandant '11 be down here in a minute." Lathers' tone was changing. 

"Let him come; he's the one I want to see. If he knew he had a man in 
his pay that would do as dirty a trick to a woman as ye've done, his name would 
be Dinnis. I'll see him meself this very day, and " 

Here Lathers interrupted with an angry gesture. 

"Don't ye lift yer arm at me," she blazed out, "or I'll break it at the wrist !" 

Lathers' hand dropped. All the color was out of his face, his lip quivering. 



z'/2 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Whoever said I said a word against you, Mrs. Grogan, is a liar." It 

was the last resort of a cowardly nature. 

"Don't ye lie to me, Pete Lathers ! If there's anythin' in this world I hate, 
it's a liar. Ye said it, and ye know ye said it. Ye want that drunken loafer, 
Dan McGaw, to get me work. Ye've been at it all Summer, an' ye think I 
haven't watched ye ; but I have. And ye say I don't pay full wages, and have got 
a lot of boys to do men's work, an' oughter be over me tubs. Now let me tell 
ye" — she faced him squarely, with her fists clenched ; Lathers shrank back against 
the fence — "if ever I hear ye openin' yer head about me, or me teams, or me 
work, I'll make ye swallow every tooth in yer head. Send down somethin' with 
a mustache, will I ? There's not a man in the yard that's a match for me, an' ye 
know it. Try that!" 

There was a quick blow, a crash of breaking timber, and a flood of dayliglit 
l^roke in behind Lathers. With one blow of her fist she had knocked the fence 
l)lank close beside his head clear of its fastenings. 

"Now, the next time I come, Pete Lathers, I'll miss the fence and take yer 
face, and don't ye forgit it !" 

Then she turned and stalked out of the yard, the men falling back in silence 
to let her pass. 





BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 273 



DOUBLE HEAD AND SINGLE HEART 

BY ELISABETH PULLEN 

(Born at Portland, Me. ) 

SHADOW fell across the page that the local editor was writing. He 
looked up. A man stood at the other side of the desk — a man with 
lively eyes, a reddish mustache, his hat set a little backward, and his 
hands in his pockets. 

"Good-day, sir," said the intruder. 'T have been in the counting- 
room to see about an ad. And now here I am, to ask if you want 
a 'story.' " 

"Editors are always in want of a 'story,' provided that it be a good one and 
inside of a couple of thousand words — or, if it was the autobiography of Napoleon, 
with his views about 'Trilby,' we couldn't take it to-day." 

The visitor nodded to show that he understood the pressure of the columns. 

"It is a remarkable case, sir. Likely to attract the attention of scientists and 
equally of the great North American public. But I rather think that I can give 
it to you inside of two thousand words. You may take it down as I tell it, and 
blue-pencil it later. See? 

"Well, sir, I will introduce myself. Raymond Dooley, advance agent of 
Purington's Aggregation of Talent. Will show here next Monday. Admission, 
ten cents ; children, half price. A good, clean show, sir, and one to make the hair 
curl with wonder at the Works of Nature and of the Human Mind. We are en- 
gaged with a circus in the Summer ; in the Winter we travel, rent a vacant shop 
for a few days, then move on. We hope to stay some time in your beautiful city. 
Our Aggregation, sir, at present, consists of the Fat Lady, who should be men- 
tioned first on account of her admirable qualities, and who acts like an own 
mother to our two sweet young ladies, the Circassian Girl and the Snake Queen. 
We also have among us the Living Skeleton, the Sword Swallower, and the Two- 
Headed Man — all of them perfect gentlemen. My story is about the Two- 
Headed Man. His name is Daniel Nathaniel Briggs. His right-hand head was 
baptized Daniel and his left-hand head Nathaniel. For some years, while he was 
a boy, his peculiarity did not trouble him much. He could eat two pieces of pie 
at once ; and at school, while one head was reciting the other could peep at the 
book and prompt him. Then he could study two lessons together, say mental 
arithmetic and spelling, and save time to play marbles. And if he could not 



274 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

find another boy to play with him his right head would play against his left. 
There were ever so many ways that he could see wherein his blessings lay, until 
he left home and joined the Aggregation. 

"Then it was that he found two heads are an over-supply for one heart ; be- 
cause Daniel fell in love with the Circassian Girl, while Nathaniel was charmed 
with the Snake Queen. His place in the show was between the two, so that 
whichever way he looked, or both ways, there was the idol of his heart. Daniel 
preferred a blonde, and our Circassian is the prettiest albino that you ever saw; 
eyes pink as a rabbit's, and lovely white hair that stands out a yard from her head 
in a circle. And she has a beautiful disposition ; sits there selling her photo- 
graphs and telling fortunes all day long, like a lamb. But Nathaniel preferred a 
brunette ; and our Snake Queen is that, and a beauty. Fine figure, black braids 
down to her waist, little hands that play with those snakes as if they were no more 
than pond-lily stems ; and there is not a snake in the bunch that can move swifter 
or more flexibly than that girl. Disposition lively, but you have to have de- 
cision of character to handle snakes. 

"At first poor Briggs did not know what was the matter with him. He said 
that he felt queer in the chest, as if his heart was being pulled two ways, and a 
stiffness in his neck. The Fat Woman thought that he had taken cold and ad- 
vised him to drink hot lemonade and put a mustard plaster on his chest. That 
did him no good. Then he found that when Daniel and Nathaniel both looked at 
the same young lady, he felt better in the chest, but one head or the other would 
ache. Finally, he narrowed it down to facts ; he had two heads, each in love with 
a charming and respectable young lady — and only one heart. And the heart was 
getting strained. Then he began to pay marked attention to the girls, hoping 
that he should find that he cared more for one of them than for the other, or that 
one would have him and the other would not. In which case the matter would 
settle itself. But the young ladies, being such, and very refined, were both as 
nice as could be to him, so that he could not make up his mind. 

"Also, to let you see what elegant people ours are, Daniel and Nathaniel 
were kind enough to agree among themselves that whichever of the two was en- 
gaged in courting, the other would shut his eyes and go to sleep in order not to 
intrude. But one day when Nathaniel was dozing and Daniel was talking to the 
Circassian Girl, Dan says: 'Excuse me a moment, Light of the Orient, while I 
speak a word to Nat, though I know that it is bad manners to whisper in com- 
pany.' So he stirred Nathaniel up with the news that the Sword Swallower was 
flirting with the Snake Queen. Another time Nat warned Dan that the Living 
Skeleton was snipping ofif a lock of the Circassian Girl's hair. So they had to 
keep awake to look out for rivals. And Briggs's chest felt so badly that he feared 
that he should be obliged to give up work and go to the hospital. 



ELISABETH PULLEN 275 

"Then the manager talked it all over with the Fat Woman, and the motherly 
old soul advised him to change the places of the young ladies, putting the Snake 
Queen next to Daniel and the Circassian Girl at the side of Nathaniel. But poor 
Biiggs got his necks so twisted around each other trying to look at their girls 
that the Snake Queen herself had to come to straighten him out. And the Na- 
thaniel head smiled until it looked fairly silly, while the Daniel head muttered, 
'Oh, get out !' The Sword Swallower inquired what Mr. Briggs meant by such 
language to a lady, saying that he could swallow eighteen inches of cold steel, but 
no cold insolence. Briggs said that what he meant was, get out his neck straight ; 
and the Sword Swallower was obliged to accept the apology, because heated dis- 
cussions are against the rules in our Aggregation. You may call our people 
fieaks, or you may call them artists, but they are perfect ladies and gentlemen 
every time. And don't you blue-pencil that. 

"One day Daniel and Nathaniel tried to talk the matter out between himself. 
Dan proposed that Nat should cease his attentions to the Serpent Queen and 
turn his thoughts instead to the Circassian Girl. To which Nat objected that 
Dan would be jealous, and Dan allowed that it would be so. Then Nat suggested 
that they should ofifer the hand and name of Mr. Briggs, each to his particular 
idol of their common heart ; but Dan pointed out that it would be awkward if 
both were accepted. Nat could only say that he wished that there were a Solo- 
mon in our Aggregation, for his great judgment act in the case of the baby with 
two mothers was only a dress rehearsal to what he might do with this difficulty. 
Dan said that the Fat Woman was a real Solomon in petticoats, and he, for his 
part, was willing to let her umpire this game. Nat agreed, and they went and 
put it to her. 

"What does she say? Says she: 'Mr. Briggs, I don't think that you are 
exactly suited to matrimonial life, because you have too much head for your 
heart ; and domestic felicity calls for the opposite make-up. Two heads, the say- 
ing is, are better than one ; and with a double brain like yours, Mr. Briggs, you 
would much better choose fame instead of happiness. Moreover, whichever 
young lady you might marry, either Daniel or Nathaniel is bound to be dissatis- 
fied all the time, and both of them some of the time. I should advise you to culti- 
vate your intellects, Mr. Briggs.' 

"Which he did, because that very day the Sword Swallower told him that the 
Snake Queen had promised to be Mrs. S. S., and the next day the Living Skel- 
eton invited Mr. Briggs to be best man at his wedding with the Circassian Girl. 
The marriages came ofif, and you would not wish to see more happy and united 
couples. And the same applies to Mr. Briggs's two heads. He, sir, following the 
further advice of the Fat Woman, has studied to be a Lightning Calculator. In 
which he succeeded and got his salary doubled. A salary, as you may say, per 



2^6 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



head. Having two mouths, he is able to eat, and now can pay for double meals. 
Vlx. Briggs, sir, is growing very stout. But the Fat Woman says that she does 
not fear a rival, because nobody would care to look at a man freak in that line. 
It is because the public does not expect lovely woman to weigh over 350 pounds 
that she is so popular. 

"If you will accept these tickets, sir, and bring your good lady and family to 
see our Aggregation, or, if you are not a family man, escort the object of your 
fondest hopes, I shall be pleased to make you acquainted with our artists, and es- 
pecially with Mr. Briggs." 

Then the editor spoke: "Pardon me, Mr. Dooley, but the story sounds im- 
probable." 

"It is not improbable, sir," retorted the Advance Agent. "It is simply im- 
possible. It is, in short, a lie. I made it all up myself for advertising purposes. 
But I think that your readers will be interested in it, if you will print it, and I 
shall be glad, sir, to set up the beer." 



^:i^,^^^^^^ 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 277 



THE WRECK OF "THE ARIEL" 

BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 

(Born at Burlington, N. J., Sept. 15, 1789; died at Cooperstown, N. Y., Sept. 14, 1851) 

>0, my boys, go!" said Barnstable, as the moment of dreadful uncertainty 
passed ; "you have still the whaleboat ; and she, at least, will take you 
nigh the shore. Go into her, my boys ! God bless you, God bless you 
all ! You have been faithful and honest fellows ; and I believe He will 
not yet desert you. Go, my friends, while there is a lull !" 

The seamen threw themselves in a mass of human bodies into the 
light vessel, which nearly sunk under the unusual burden ; but, when they looked 
around them, Barnstable and Merry, Dillon and the cockswain, were yet to be seen 
on the decks of "The Ariel." The former was pacing, in deep and perhaps bitter 
melancholy, the wet planks of the schooner; while the boy hung unheeded on 
his arm, uttering disregarded petitions to his commander to desert the wreck. 
Dillon approached the side where the boat lay, again and again ; but the threat- 
ening countenances of the seamen as often drove him back in despair. Tom had 
seated himself on the heel of the bowsprit, where he continued in an attitude of 
quiet resignation, returning no answers to the loud and repeated calls of his ship- 
mates than by waving his hand towards the shore. 

"Now, hear me," said the boy, urging his request to tears ; "if not for my 
sake or for your own sake, Mr. Barnstable, or for the hopes of God's mercy, go 
into the boat for the love of my cousin Katherine." 

The young lieutenant paused in his troubled walk ; and for a moment he cast 
a glance of hesitation at the difis ; but at the next instant his eyes fell on the ruin 
of his vessel ; and he answered : 

"Never, boy, never ! If my hour has come, I will not shrink from my fate." 

"Listen to the men, dear sir; the boat will be swamped alongside the wreck; 
and their cry is. that, without you, they will not let her go." 

Barnstable motioned to the boat to bid the boy enter it, and turned away in 
silence. 

"Well," said Merry, with firmness, "if it be right that a lieutenant shall stay 
by the wreck, it must be right for a midshipman. Shove ofif ; neither Mr. Barn- 
stable nor myself will quit the vessel." 

"Boy, your life has been intrusted to my keeping, and at my hands will it be 
required," said his commander, lifting the struggling youth, and tossing him into 




JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 



278 



JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 279 

the arms of the seamen. "Away with ye ! and God be with you ! There is more 
weight in you now than can go safe to land." 

Still the seamen hesitated ; for they perceived the cockswain moving with a 
steady tread along the deck ; and they hoped he had relented, and would yet per- 
suade the lieutenant to join his crew. But Tom, imitating the example of his 
commander, seized the latter suddenly in his powerful grasp, and threw him over 
the bulwarks with an irresistible force. At the same moment, he cast the fast of 
the boat from the pin that held it ; and, lifting his broad hands high into the air, 
his voice was heard in the tempest. 

"God's will be done with me!" he cried. "I saw the first timber of 'The 
Ariel' laid, and shall live just long enough to see it turn out of her bottom ; after 
which I wish to live no longer." 

But his shipmates were swept far beyond the sounds of his voice before 
half these words were uttered. All command of the boat was rendered impos- 
sible by the numbers it contained, as well as the raging of the surf ; and, as it rose 
on the white crest of a wave, Tom saw his beloved little craft for the last time. 
It fell into a trough of the sea ; in a few moments more its fragments were ground 
into splinters on the adjacent rocks. The cockswain still remained where he had 
cast off the rope, and beheld the numerous heads and arms that appeared rising 
at short intervals on the waves ; some making powerful and well-directed efforts 
to gain the sands, that were becoming visible as the tide fell ; and others wildly 
tossed in the frantic movements of helpless despair. The honest old seaman gave 
a cry of joy as he saw Barnstable issue from the surf, bearing the form of Merry 
in safety to the sands, where, one by one, several seamen soon appeared also, 
dripping and exhausted. Many others of the crew were carried in a similar man- 
ner to places of safety ; though, as Tom returned to his seat on the bowsprit, he 
could not conceal from his reluctant eyes the lifeless forms that were, in other 
spots, driven against the rocks with a fury that soon left them but few of the out- 
ward vestiges of humanity. 

Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants of their dreadful sta- 
tion. The former stood in a kind of stupid despair, a witness of the scene we 
have related ; but, as his curdled blood began again to flow more warmly through 
his heart, he crept close to the side of Tom with that sort of selfish feeling that 
makes even hopeless misery more tolerable when endured in participation with 
another. 

"When the tide falls," he said, in a voice that betrayed the agony of fear, 
though his words expressed the renewal of hope, "we shall be able to walk to 
land." 

"There was One, and only One, to whose feet the waters were the same as a 
dry dock," returned the cockswain ; "and none but such as have this power will 



28o BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

ever be able to walk from these rocks to the sands." The old seaman paused ; 
and turning his eyes, which exhibited a mingled expression of disgust and com- 
passion, on his companion, he added with reverence : "Had you thought more 
of Him in fair weather, your case would be less to be pitied in this tempest." 

"Do you still think there is much danger?" asked Dillon. 

"To them that have reason to fear death. Listen ! Do you hear that hol- 
low noise beneath ye?" 

"'Tis the wind driving by the vessel." 

"'Tis the poor thing herself," said the afifected cockswain, "giving her last 
groans. The water is breaking up her decks ; and, in a few minutes more, the 
handsomest model that ever cut a wave will be like the chips that fell from her 
timbers in framing." 

"Why, then, did you remain here?" cried Dillon, wildly. 

"To die in my coffin, if it should be the will of God," returned Tom. "These 
waves to me are what the land is to you ; I was born on them, and I have always 
meant that they should be my grave." 

"But I — I," shrieked Dillon — "I am not ready to die ! — I can not die ! — I will 
not die !" 

"Poor wretch !" muttered his companion. "You must go, like the rest of us. 
When the death-watch is called, none can skulk from the muster." 

"I can swim," Dillon continued, rushing with frantic eagerness to the side 
of the wreck. "Is there no billet of wood, no rope, that I can take with me?" 

"None; every thing has been cut away, or carried ofif by the sea. If ye are 
about to strive for your life, take with ye a stout heart and a clear conscience, and 
trust the rest to God." 

"God !" echoed Dillon in the madness of his frenzy ; "I know no God ! There 
is no God that knows me !" 

"Peace !" said the deep tones of the cockswain in a voice that seemed to 
speak in the elements ; "blasphemer, peace !" 

The heavy groaning produced by the water in the timbers of "The Ariel" at 
that moment added its impulse to the raging feelings of Dillon ; and he cast him- 
self headlong into the sea. 

The water thrown by the rolling of the surf on the beach was necessarily re- 
turned to the ocean in eddies, in different places favorable to such an action of the 
element. Into the edge of one of these counter-currents, that was produced by 
the very rocks on which the schooner lay, and which the watermen call the "un- 
der-tow," Dillon had, unknowingly, thrown his person ; and, when the waves had 
driven him a short distance from the wreck, he was met by a stream that his most 
desperate efforts could not overcome. He was a light and powerful swimmer; 
and the struggle was hard and protracted. With the shore immediately before 



JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 281 

his eyes, and at no great distance, he was led, as by a false phantom, to continue 
his efforts, although they did not advance him a foot. The old seaman, who at 
first had watched his motions with careless indifference, understood the danger 
of his situation at a glance* and, forgetful of his own fate, he shouted aloud, in a 
voice that was driven over the struggling victim to the ears of his shipmates on 
the sands : 

"Sheer to port, and clear the under-tow ! — sheer to the southward !" 
Dillon heard the sounds ; but his faculties were too much obscured by terror 
to distinguish their object ; he, however, blindly yielded to the call, and gradually 
changed his direction, until his face was once more turned toward the vessel. 
The current swept him diagonally by the rocks ; and he was forced into an eddy, 
where he had nothing to contend against but the waves, whose violence was much 
broken by the wreck. In this state he continued still to struggle, but with a force 
that was too much weakened to overcome the resistance he met. Tom looked 
around him for a rope ; but not one presented itself to his hands ; all had gone 
over with the spars, or been swept away by the waves. At this moment of dis- 
appointment, his eyes met those of the desperate Dillon. Calm, and inured to 
horrors, as was the veteran seaman, he involuntarily passed his hand before his 
brow as if to exclude the look of despair he encountered ; and when, a moment 
afterwards, he removed the rigid member, he beheld the sinking form of the vic- 
tim as it gradually settled in the ocean, still struggling, with regular but impo- 
tent strokes of the arms and feet, to gain the wreck, and to preserve an existence 
that had been so much abused in its hour of allotted probation. 

"He will soon know his God, and learn that his God knows him," mur- 
mured the cockswain to himself. As he yet spoke, the wreck of "The Ariel" 
yielded to an overwhelming sea ; and, after a universal shudder, her timbers and 
planks gave way, and were swept towards the cliffs, bearing the body of the 
simple-minded cockswain among the ruins. 




282 



GENERAL CHARLES KING 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 283 



WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN 

FROM THE TALE OF THAT TITL,E 

BY GENERAL CHARLES KING 

(Born at Albany, N. Y., 1844) 

AN ACCOUNT OF A HIGHI^Y INTERESTING CEREMONY THAT PRECEDED THE MIGRATION 
OF THE DAKOTA TRIBES AND THE CUSTER MASSACRE 

'HE Peak of the Clouds was buried in the blackness of a stormy night. 
Heavy masses of dense vapor, carried by the wind, were discharging 
their thunderbolts against it, shattering the giant firs and tumbling 
the rocks in avalanches down the steep sides. Under the fallen trees 
and in the sheltered corners of the ravines the panthers crouched, 
trembling with fear. Torrents of rain, washing downward from the 
steep slopes, choked the water-ways of the canons, and hurled heavy logs against 
the curves of the rugged banks like projectiles from a catapult. 

In her cave, half-way up the mountain-side, dwelt Wauna, the witch-maiden. 
As a cure for the chill and dampness of the air, she had piled heavy fagots deep 
upon the fire that burned in the depths of the cavern, and had set up on each side 
of the entrance a huge blazing knot of pitch-pine. The yellow light emblazoned 
the shining points of the walls, bringing them into sharper relief, relegating the 
depressions to obscurest blackness. The smoke of the burning fagots, borne by 
the draft from the entrance, disappeared into the throat of the dark recess which 
pierced the interior of the mountain. 

Scattered promiscuously over the triangular-shaped floor were heaps of relics 
of the hunt and war-trail. Piles of dried meat, implements of stone, horn, and 
bone, saddles, moccasins, bead ornaments, bear, bufifalo, and panther skins lay 
upon the floor without effort at arrangement ; while from poles that rested against 
the rocky sides dangled scalps of human hair and strings and festoons of elks' 
teeth and grizzly bears' claws. A raven perched near the entrance upon a pole 
laid horizontally between two uprights ; and below, two coyotes, a prairie-dog, 
and a red fox tugged fretfully at their leashes. There was abundant evidence 
that the profession of sorceress, oracle, and general manager of human destinies 
was a profitable one. 

The witch-maiden passed beyond the blazing pine-knots, and, pushing back 
the tangled masses of her wiry hair, looked out through the mouth of the cave 
into the seething tempest that swept down the sides of the mountain. Each flash 



284 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

of lightning that Ht the slanting forest with its vivid radiance was followed by 
rolling thunder that shook the very rocks. It was not likely that human beings 
could be abroad in such a storm. She shuffled back into the cave. 

"The Great Spirit speaks in the clouds— he is very near," she muttered. "I 
will discover his will for the Crow people — the Absaraki." 

She seized the thong which bound the leg of the raven and drew it struggling 
down from the perch. In front of the fire stood a flat slab of yellow stone. She 
knelt before it, apd drew from her belt a sharp, round-edged knife of flint. Then 
holding the bird back downward on the rock, she deftly cut out its entrails, taking 
care not to sever them. The raven flapped its wings violently and uttered harsh, 
painful croaks. Spreading the entrails over the surface of the rock, she watched 
them twist and turn, first into one figure, then into another. 

"The omen is good," she exclaimed. Then drawing an arrow from a quiver 
on the floor, she spitted the bird upon it and held it in the flames of the fire. 
The flesh caught and burned quickly in the bright blaze. 

"It is good, good. The Crows will go upon the hunting trail and will find 
much game. They will never fight again with the white men." She threw the 
shaft of the arrow after the burned carcass into the fire. "The Great Spirit speaks 
well in the thunder." 

She was still peering into the fire, watching the dissolving remnant of the 
raven, when there was a sound of footsteps at the entrance of the cavern. She 
rose quickly from her knees and turned her small beady eyes upon the intruder. 

"Back, back!" she screamed; "come not here! Back, back — or die!" She 
seized a bow and fitted a poisoned arrow to the cord. 

"Stay thy hand, great Wauna," answered the dark figure in the mouth of the 
cavern. "It is thy servant, Sitting Bull. Peace be between us." 

"Why come ye here at such an evil hour?" asked the witch, in quieter tones, 
throwing the bow and arrow back upon the floor. "Where are thy gifts and the 
ofifering?" 

"The squaw brings from the valley two ponies laden with gifts. I left her far 
behind, for I must return before the moon is full. I come to seek the will of the 
Great Spirit for my people, the Dakotas. I must lead them to the hunting- 
ground where the cow bufifalo is plenty. 

"Aid thy servant, great Wauna. that no evil may befall the tribes. If the 
mission be successful, then shall Sitting Bull become the war chief of all the 
Dakotas. and thou, Wauna, shall become great among all the people." 

The woman fastened her snaky eyes upon him as if to divine his thoughts. 
"He who would be war chief must endure pain and affliction without shrinking 
backward," she said. "Show me the scars of the sun-dance." 



GENERAL CHARLES KING 285 

"I have none. Because I am a medicine-man I have not sought fame on the 
war-trail." 

"He who would lead his people in battle must prove himself worthy. Come 
— and flinch not." 

The witch-maiden took two long plaits of sinew having hooks at each end 
and threw them over the horizontal pole that crossed the entrance. By means of 
a sliding noose she fastened them so that the four hooks hung down, near to- 
gether. 

"Come! Prepare thyself! He who aspires to lead his people on the war- 
trail must prove himself worthy." 

He cast his robe on the floor of the cave and stood under the hooks. His 
features hardened and his muscles grew tense. The woman skilfully cut the skin 
of his back and breast — two vertical slits over each — and slipped the hooks under 
the ribbons of flesh that were released. 

"Now, free thyself!" she commanded. "Tear thyself loose from the bondage 
of fear or thou art no better than a squaw. He who would lead his people must 
be brave." 

The huge savage dropped his full weight upon the hooks and drew up his 
knees until they touched his chest. Then he extended them downward and raised 
himself, dropping again and again. The lines of his face contracted and his 
muscles stood out like bands of iron. One by one the hooks tore loose until at 
length he fell exhausted at the feet of the Wauna. Not a sound had passed his 
lips to tell of the agony of the self-imposed torture. 

"Well done, my son. Well art thou fit to lead thy people in battle. But 
thou desirest to become a great medicine-chief. Those who would heal their 
people must prove themselves worthy. Canst thou heal the bite of the snake 
enemy? Canst thou defy Natakis?" 

She retreated into the recess of the cave, and returned bearing in one hand 
a huge rattlesnake and in the other several tufts of herbs bound together with 
thongs. 

"Come, come," she said. "Give thy finger to Natakis. Then from these 
herbs choose the one which will heal thee." 

The medicine-man took the herbs and drew forth a bunch having long leaf- 
less stems and a thorny button on the end. He placed one in his mouth and 
chewed it to a paste. Then extending his left forefinger he vexed the snake until 
it buried its fangs in the fleshy part. Instantly he placed the wound in his mouth 
and sucked the poison into the pulp of the herb. After a time he withdrew it 
and held it before the Wauna. There was no sign of the poison left, not even a 
swelling. 



286 UEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Well done, my son," chuckled the hag. "Thou art both brave and skilful. 
Having proved thyself worthy, thou art permitted to talk with the Great Spirit." 

She seized a cup made from the horn of a mountain sheep, filled it with a 
curious green liquid, and placed it in his hand. 

"Now drink," she said, "and lay thyself to sleep upon these skins. In thy 
dreams the Great Spirit will appear unto thee." 

******* 

At last the medicine-man awoke and sat upright. 

"What hast thou dreamed?" asked the witch-maiden, eagerly. 

"Oh, Wauna, prophetess of the storms," he answered, "worthy art thou of 
thine office ! In my dream I saw wonderful things. I saw the horsemen of the 
white men rushing among the lodges of my people. They were many, and my 
people were frightened and would have fled, but I bore among them the skin of 
the white wolf and commanded them to turn and fight. Their hearts were 
strengthened at the sight. They charged upon the white men, and drove them 
back, and slew them to a man." 

"The omen is good, my son. Now art thou rewarded for toiling through 
the forests, and across the streams, and up the mountain-side to seek the aid of 
the Wauna. Return now to thy people, and lead them to victory and the hunt- 
ing ground. Thou shalt drive back the white men and lead the Dakotas into the 
great valley beyond the Yellowstone." 

She darted back into the recesses of the cave, and returned with a gaunt 
bald eagle bound and hooded with a piece of buckskin. "Take with thee the war 
eagle," she said. "Under its wings shalt thou find victory for thy people. Go, 
and let not the waters hinder thy flight. The full moon is near at hand." 

He seized the bird by the talons, and, throwing his robe around him, sped 
out of the cave and disappeared from sight among the firs that covered the- 
mountain-side. The sorceress peered after him, shading her eyes from the 
brightness of the morning sun. 

"He must hasten or be too late. The moon is growing — it shows in the east 
when the sun is high. Leader of men, may the deer run slowly compared with 
thee." 

In the valley of the Greasy Grass a thousand cone-shaped lodges lifted their 
tattered shapes out of the flowering border of willow and wild-rose that marked 
its winding course. Twenty herds of ponies browsed and chased one another 
on the slope that ascended toward the foot-hills of the Big Horn cange, wandering 
impulsively this way and that under the watchful eyes of their naked guardians. 
Groups of dirty, ragged children were tumbling about in the shade of the bushes 
or mischievously running and hiding to escape capture by»their anxious squaw 
mothers. Many of the braves were pensively smoking in the shade of the lodges. 



GENERAL CHARLES KING 287 

Others, more industrious, were sharpening spear and arrow heads or mending 
their bows and quivers. The camp could not have presented a more lazy or 
improvident appearance had it remained scattered still among the Winter sites 
in the fastnesses of the mountains. The scarcely perceptible breeze that moved 
the leaves of the bushes was ineffectual against the enervating warmth of the 
June sun. Six thousand savages, ignorant of the reason for the mighty assem- 
blage, were indifferently awaiting the command of the great war chief to move, 
they knew not whither. 

Such was the camp of the Dakotas when a lone horseman appeared galloping 
over the crest of the low hills that descended from the Rosebud divide in the east. 
One by one the curious eyes of the camp were turned upon him, watching him 
as he dashed rapidly down the slope and swam the stream. He galloped fu- 
riously, shouting inquiries to those he passed on his way, until he reached the 
lodge of Gall, the war chief, where he stopped and quickly entered. Almost im- 
mediately they saw him leap again upon his tired pony and continue his frantic 
career down the stream among the lodges of the lower villages. 

"To arms ! To arms ! The white soldiers ! Arm for your lives !" he cried 
as he swept on. 

Instantly the signals were given to the herders. The bands of ponies began 
to circle and close in upon their leaders ; a moment later they were galloping 
madly each in the direction of its respective village. 

The attack by the white soldiers was a complete surprise. Until the cry of 
the messenger rang out over the lazy camp not a living soul in all the mighty 
assembly had dreamed of the dread presence. So rapidly had they moved to the 
attack that even the messenger had not succeeded in distancing them by more 
than an hour's ride. The braves had barely time to swing their quivers and 
array themselves for the fight when a cloud of dust, rising behind a curve in the 
banks of the stream, announced the near approach of the enemy. At the sight 
the war-cry rose, and was caught up from village to village until the air was filled 
with an agony of demoniacal yells. Activity and confusion prevailed where only 
a moment before all had been dreamy quietness. It was like the change wrought 
by an earthquake. 

A cavalry column defiled out of a break in the north border of hills that 
flanked the Greasy Grass, and plunging into the stream, crossed rapidly, scarcely 
breaking the trot. Soon they swung into line of battle athwart the valley, up- 
stream from the Indian village, in plain view of all, the guidons fluttering, and the 
sabres and bright metal trappings flashing in the sunlight. The braves, each 
mounted on his fleetest pony, armed with rifle, or lance, or bow and arrow, as 
chance provided, awaited the charge in the edge of the willows that skirted the 



288 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

village. Straight upon them came the battalion of horse, a long unbroken line 
swinging steadily toward them. It was time to meet the charge. 

The chiefs led out, and wheeling swiftly parallel to the line, discharged their 
weapons. The warriors followed, and the sally produced its effect. The line 
of cavalry halted ; the soldiers dismounted and opened fire with their carbines. 
A storm of arrows was the reply. The commander's heart failed him. The line 
mounted and fell back, halted once more, and opened fire. The bullets of the 
whites were deadly. Already many braves had fallen, and were being borne to 
the rear by their comrades. This time the whites held their ground ; it seemed 
impossible to turn tlrem. In the camp was a wild chaos of confusion. The 
aged men with the squaws and papooses were flying to the hills, driving the 
spare ponies before them. The sharp report of rifles, screams and yells, the 
neighing of horses, and, more piercing than all, the shrill war-cry, rose out of the 
circling, struggling mass in the valley. 

Gall, the war chief, looked down from an eminence upon the waning fortunes 
of his braves. They could see him sitting there like a statue on his long-tailed 
white pony. On his left a frightened rout of women and children was crowding 
up into the bluffs ; in front, the smoke and dust of the battle ; on the right, in the 
distance, a rising cloud of dust gave warning of the approach of another column 
of the white enemy. It seemed as if the hour had come for him to dash down and 
lead his yielding people, but still he sat, silent and grim, scrutinizing the strife 
below, his war-bonnet trailing to the ground, his rifle resting across the pony's 
withers. 

He alone saw the single horseman that emerged from the opening in the 
hills and dashed down the slope towards the scene of the struggle. It was the 
medicine-man of the Uncapapas, Sitting Bull, horned like a demon with the 
buffalo skull which proclaimed his intercourse with the spirits. The white wolf- 
skin flowed from his shoulder, shining out against the black robe that covered 
his huge frame like an ermine shield. High above his head he bore the pinioned 
war eagle, the talisman of victory. Into the thick of the fight, among the aston- 
ished braves, he plunged. 

"Death to the Mineaska ! Kill! Kill!" he cried. 

The effect was like magic. The war-cry rose again from a thousand savage 
throats, and the braves bore down upon the cavalry like vultures upon the dead. 
There was no resisting the fury of the charge. The remaining horsemen turned 
and fled across the stream, leaving a wake of killed and wounded. Upon each 
fallen body leaped a dozen warriors to strip it of clothing and scalp. The cry of 
victory rose like a wail from Gehenna. From every drop of blood spilt on that 
field has sprung a thousand pages of history. 

Down the valley, among the lower villages, rushed the medicine-chief, bear- 



GENERAL CHARLES KING 289 

ing aloft the living eagle. The war-cry followed the passage of the mighty em- 
blem, and echoed again from village to village. The old men and women, fren- 
zied at the change of fortune, turned back from the hills to join their braves and 
united in the plunder and torture. Never was defeat of the whites more unex- 
pected and depressing ; never victory of the Dakotas more complete and thrilling. 

The sun was reddening in the west when Gall, the war chief, turned his white 
pony up the trail that leads to the highest blufif that overlooks the scene of the 
battle. At the summit he saw the tall figure of the medicine-man calmly survey- 
ing the terrible rejoicings of the valley. He still bore the emblems which had 
spurred the warriors to success. His attitude was that of the workman who sur- 
veys a well-finished task. 

Gall dismounted at his side, and removing his war-bonnet, placed it, to- 
gether with the trail-rope of the white pony, in the hands of the medicine-chief. 

"Sitting Bull," he said, haughtily, "this day thou hast led thy people to a 
great victory. Henceforth thou shalt lead them in peace, as well as in war. 
Henceforth thou shalt be known as chief of all the Dakotas. Let this spot re- 
ceive its name from thee. Release the war eagle, that it may tell the sun that a 
chief has arisen who meets the white man and leaves his bones to whiten upon 
the prairie. Surely the Great Spirit speaks in thee." 

"Thou hast spoken well, war chief," answered Sitting Bull. "It is the day 
of the full moon. This night shall I command the tribes to move forth into the 
great valley beyond the Yellowstone. The Great Spirit has spoken." 

From that day until his death Sitting Bull guided the destinies of the Sioux. 
A recluse medicine-squaw who dwelt in a remote cavern of the Big Horn range 
near Cloud's Peak suggested to him the idea of leadership, by interpreting a 
dream for him. His own cunning and address accomplished the rest. The story 
of his visit to the sorceress was related to me by one of his own relatives. 



^Y^//^:k^c./i.>^< 





LOUlSh CHANDl.HK MOLU/rON 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 291 



OLD JONES IS DEAD 

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 

(Born at I'omfret, Conn., April lo, 1835) 

I sat in my window, higli overhead, 

And heard them say, below in the street, 

'I suppose you know that old Jones is dead?" 

Then the speakers passed, and I heard tlieir feet 

Heedlessly walking their onward way. 

'Dead !" What more could there be to say? 

But I sat and pondered what it might mean 
Thus to be dead while the world went by : 

Did Jones see farther than we have seen ? 

Was he one with the stars in the watching sky ? 

Or down there under the growing grass 

Did he hear the feet of the daylight pass? 

Were daytime and night-time as one to him now, 
And grieving and hoping a tale that is told ? 

A kiss on his lips, or a hand on his brow, 

Could he feel them under the churchyard mold, 

As he surely had felt them his whole life long, 

Though they passed with his youth-time, hot and stron< 

They called him "Old Jones" when at last he died ; 

"Old Jones" he had been for many a year; 
Yet his faithful memory Time defied, 

And dwelt in the days so distant and dear, 
When first he had found that love was sweet, 
And recked not the speed of its hurrying feet. 

Does he brood, in the long night under the sod, 
On the joys and sorrows he used to know ? 

Or far in some wonderful world of God, 

Where the shinine seraphs stand, row on row, 



292 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



Does he ^vake like a child at the daylight's gleam, 
And know that the past was a night's short dream ? 

Is he dead, and a clod there, down below ; 

Or dead and wiser than any alive — 
Which ? Ah, who of ns all may know. 

Or who can say how the dead folk thrive ? — 
But the Summer morning is cool and sweet, 
And I hear the live folk laugh in the street. 




CORNKR OK LIBRARY OF LOUISE CHANDLER MOILTON 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 293 



A MOTHER'S INTUITION 

FROM "HOSPITAI, SKETCHES" 

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

(Born at Germantown, Pa., Nov. 29, 1822; died at Boston, Mass., March 6, 1888) 

ERE'S the paper, and Fisher to read it for us, boys. Hush, there, and 
let's hear what's up !" 

An instant silence reigned through the crowded ward as the chief 

attendant entered with the morning sheet that daily went the rounds. 

The convalescents gathered about him ; the least disabled propped 

themselves upon their arms to listen ; even the weakest turned wistful 

eyes that way, and ceased their moaning that they might hear as Fisher slowly 

read out the brief despatches, and then the mournful lists of wounded, dead, and 

missing. 

Among the many faces in the room, one female appeared — a strong, calm 
face, with steadfast eyes, and lips grown infinitely tender with the daily gospel 
of patience, hope, and consolation which they preached in words of motherly 
compassion. Still bathing and binding up the shattered limb, she listened to the 
reading, though her heart stood still to hear, and her face flushed and paled with 
the rapid alternations of hope and fear. Presently the one audible voice paused 
suddenly, and 3. little stir ran through the group as the reader stole an anxious 
glance at the woman. She saw it, divined its meaning, and in an instant seemed 
to have nerved herself for anything. Sponge and bandage dropped from her 
hands, a quick breath escaped her, and an expression of sharp anguish for a 
moment marred the composure of her countenance ; but she fixed a tearless eye 
on Fisher, asking, steadily — 

"Are my boys' names there?" 

"Only one. ma'am — only one, I do assure you ; and he's merely lost an arm. 
That's better luck than half of 'em have ; and now it's got to be a kind of an 
honor to wear an empty sleeve, you know," replied the old man, with a half- 
encouraging, half-remorseful look, as he considerately omitted to add the words, 
"and seriously wounded in the right," to the line, "R. Stirling, left arm gone." 

A long sigh of thanksgiving left the mother's lips ; then, with one of the 
natural impulses of a strong character, which found relief in action, she took up 
the roller and resumed her work more tenderly than ever — for in her sight that 
shattered arm was her boy's arm now — only saying, with a face of pale ex- 
pectancy : 




LOUISA M. ALCOTT 



294 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 295 

"Read on, Fisher ; I have another son to keep or lose." 

So swift, so subtle, is the magnetism of human sympathy, that not a man 
in all that room but instantly forgot himself, his own anxieties, hopes, fears, and 
waited breathlessly for the utterance of that other name. Several sat upright in 
their beds to catch the good or evil tidings in the reader's face ; one dying man 
sighed softly, from the depths of a homesick heart, "Lord, keep him for his 
mother!" and the standing group drew close about Fisher, peering over his 
shoulder, that younger, keener eyes might read the words, and warn him lest 
they left his lips too suddenly for one listener's ear. 

Slowly name after name was read, and the long list drew near its end. A 
look of relief already settled upon some countenances, and one friendly fellow 
had turned to nod reassuringly at the mother, when a hand clutched Fisher's 
shoulder, and with a start he stopped short in the middle of a word. Mrs. Stir- 
ling rose up to receive the coming blow, and stood there mute and motionless, 
a figure so full of pathetic dignity that many eyes grew very dim. A gesture 
signified her wish, and, with choked voice and trembling lips, poor Fisher softly 
read the brief record that one word made so terrible — 

"R. Stirling, dead." 

"Give me the paper." 

A dozen hands were outstretched to serve her; and, as she took it, trying 
to teach herself that the heavy tidings were not false, several caps were silently 
swept ofif — an involuntary tribute of respect to that great grief from rough yet 
tender-hearted men who had no words to ofTer. 

The hurried entrance of a surgeon broke the heavy silence ; and his brisk 
voice jarred on every ear, as he exclaimed : 

"Good-by, boys ! I'm off to the front. God bless me, what's the matter?" 

"Bad news for Mrs. Stirling, sir. Do speak to her. I can't," whispered 
Fisher, with two great tears running down his waistcoat. 

There was no time to speak ; three words had roused her from the first 
stupor to her sorrow, and down the long room she went, steady and strong again, 
straight to the surgeon, saying, briefly : 

"To the front ? When do you go ?" 

"In half an hour. What can I do for you ?" 

"Take me with you." 

"Mrs. Stirling, it is impossible," began the astonished gentleman. 

"Nothing is impossible to me. I must find my boys — one living and one 
dead. For God's sake don't deny me this !" 

She stretched her hands to him imploringly ; she made as though she would 
kneel down before him ; and her stricken face pleaded for her more eloquently 
than her broken words. 



296 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Dr. Hyde was an army surgeon ; but a man's heart beat warm behind his 
bright buttons, unhardened by all the scenes of suffering, want, and woe through 
which he had been passing for three memorable years. Now it yearned over this 
poor mother with an almost filial pity and affection, as he took the trembling 
hands into his own and answered, earnestly : 

"Heaven knows I would not deny you if it were safe and wise to grant your 
wish. My dear lady, you have no conception of the horrors of a battlefield, or 
the awful scenes you must witness in going to the front. These hasty lists are not 
to be relied upon. Wait a little, and let me look for your sons. On my soul, I 
promise to do it as faithfully as a brother." 

"I cannot wait. Another week of such suspense would kill me. You never 
saw my boys. I do not even know which is living and which is dead. Then how 
can you look for them as well as I? You would not know the poor dead face 
among a hundred ; you would not recognize the familiar voice e^en in the ravings 
of pain or the din and darkness of those dreadful transports. I can bear anything, 
do anything, go anywhere, to find my boys. Oh, sir, by the love you bear your 
mother, I implore you to let me go !" 

The look, the tone, the agony of supplication, made her appeal irresistible. 

"You shall," replied the doctor, decidedly, putting all objections, obstacles 
and dangers out of sight. "I'll delay one hour for you, Mrs. Stirling." 

Up she sprang, as if endowed with the spirit and activity of a girl; hope, 
courage, gratitude shone in her eyes, flushed warm across her face, and sounded 
in her eager voice, as she said, hurrying from the room : 

"Not an instant for me. Go as you first proposed. I shall be ready long 
before the time." 

She was: for all her thought, her care, was for her boys, not for herself; 
and when Dr. Hyde went to seek her in the matron's room, that busy woman 
looked up from the case of stores she was unpacking, and answered, with a sob : 

"Poor soul! she's waiting for you in the hall." 

News of her loss and her departure had flown through the house ; for no 
nurse there was so beloved and honored as "Madam Stirling," as the stately 
old lady was called among the boys ; and when the doctor led her to the ambu- 
lance, it was through a crowd of wan and crippled creatures gathered there to 
see her off. Many eyes followed her, many lips blessed her, many hands were 
outstretched for a farewell grasp; and, as the ambulance went clattering away, 
old Fisher gave expression to the general feeling when he said, with an air of 
solemn conviction in almost ludicrous contrast to the emotional contortions of 
his brown countenance : 

"She'll find 'em ! It's borne in upon me uncommon strong that the Lord 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 297 

won't rob such a woman of her sons — bless her stout heart ! So give her a cheer, 
boys, and then clear the way !" 

They did give her a cheer, a right hearty one — though the voices were none 
of the strongest, and nearly as many crutches as caps were waved in answer to 
the smile she sent them as she passed from sight. 

It was not a long journey that lay before her,' yet to Mrs. Stirling it seemed 
interminable; for a heavy heart went with her, and through all the hopeful or 
despondent thoughts that haunted her one unanswerable question continually 
sounded, like a sorrowful refrain — "One killed, one wounded. Which is living? 
Which is dead?" 

They came at last, with much difficulty and many delays, to the little town 
in and along which lay nine thousand dead, and nearly twenty thousand wounded 
men. Although a week had not yet passed since the thunder of the cannon 
ceased, the place already looked like the vast cemetery which it was soon to be- 
come ; for in groves and fields, by the roadside and along the slopes, wherever 
they fell, lay loyal and rebel soldiers in the shallow graves that now are green. 
The long labor of interment was just begun ; for the living appealed more ur- 
gently to both friend and stranger, and no heart was closed, no hand grew weary, 
while strength and power to aid remained. All day supply wagons and cars 
came full and departed empty ; all day ambulances rolled to and fro, bringing 
the wounded from remoter parts of the wide battlefield, to the railroad for re- 
moval to fixed hospitals elsewhere ; all day the relief-stations, bearing the blessed 
sign, "U. S. San. Com.," received hundreds of sufferers into the shelter of their 
tents, who must else have laid waiting their turn for transportation in the burn- 
ing July sun; all day, and far into the night, red-banded surgeons stood at the 
rude tables, heart-sick and weary with their hard yet merciful labors, as shattered 
body after body was laid before them, while many more patiently, even cheerfully, 
awaited their turn ; and all day mothers, wives and widows, fathers, friends and 
lovers roamed the hills and valleys, or haunted the field-hospitals, searching for 
the loved and lost. 

Dr. Hyde was under orders ; but for many hours he neglected everything 
but Mrs. Stirling, going with her from houses, tents and churches, to barns, 
streets and crowded yards ; for everywhere the wounded lay thick as Autumn 
leaves : some on bloody blankets, some on scattered straw, a few in cleanly beds, 
many on the bare ground ! — and if anything could have added to the bitter pain 
of hope deferred, it would have been the wistful glances turned on the newcomers 
from eyes that, seeing no familiar face, closed again with a pathetic patience that 
wrung the heart. All day they searched ; but nowhere did the mother find her 
boys, nor any tidings of them ; and, as night fell, her companion besought her to 
rest from the vain search, and accept the hospitality of a friendly citizen. 



298 BEST THINGS FROM AAIERICAN LITERATURE 

"Dear Mrs. Stirling, wait here till morning," the doctor said. "I must go to 
my work, but will not till I know that you are safe ; for you can never wander 
here alone. I will send a faithful messenger far and wide, to make inquiries 
through the night, and hope to greet you in the morning with the happiest news." 

She scarcely seemed to hear him, so intent was her mind upon the one hope 
that absorbed it. 

"Go to your work, kind friend," she said; "the poor souls need you more 
than I. Have no fears for me. I want neither rest nor food ; I only want my 
boys ; and I must look for them both day and night, lest one hour of idleness 
should make my coming one hour too late. I shall go back to the station. A 
constant stream of wounded men is passing there ; and, while I help and comfort 
them. I can see that my boys are not hurried away while I am waiting for them 
here." 

He let her have her will, well knowing that for such as she there was no rest 
till hope came, or exhausted nature forced her to pause. Back to the relief- 
station they went, and, while Dr. Hyde dressed wounds, issued orders and made 
diligent inquiry among the throngs that came and went, Mrs. Stirling, with 
other anxious yet hopeful, helpful women moved about the tents, preparing nour- 
ishment for the men, who came in faster than they could be served. Through 
the whole night she worked, lifting water to lips too parched to syllable the word, 
wetting wounds unbandaged for days, feeding famished creatures who had lain 
suffering in solitary places till some minister of mercy found and succored them, 
whispering words of good cheer, and, by the cordial comfort of her presence, 
sending many a poor soul on his way rejoicing. But, while she worked so tire- 
lessly for others, she still hungered for her children, and would not be comforted. 
No ambulance came rumbling from the field that she did not hurry out to scan 
the newcomers with an eye that neither darkness nor disguise could deceive ; 
nor a stretcher with its helpless burden was brought in that she did not bend over 
it with the blessed cup of water in her hand, and her poor heart fluttering in her 
breast ; and often, among the groups of sleepers that lay everywhere, there went 
a shadowy figure through the night, turning the lantern's glimmer on each pallid 
face; but nowhere did Rick or Rob look back at her with the glad cry, "Mother!" 

At dawn. Dr. Hyde came to her. With difficulty did he prevail upon her to 
eat a morsel and rest a little, while he told her of his night's attempts, and spoke 
chcerfullv of the many mishaps, the unavoidable disappointments and delay, of 
such a quest at such a time and place. 

"We have searched the town, and Blake and Snow will see that no Stirling 
leaves by any of the trains to-day. But the hospitals on the outskirts still remain 
for us, besides the heights and hollows ; for, on a battlefield like this, many men 
might lie unfound for days while search was going on about them. I have a 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 299 

wagon here, a rough affair, but the best I can get ; and, if you will not rest, let us 
go together and look again for these lost sons of yours." 

They went ; and for another long, hot, summer day looked on sights that 
haunted their memories for years, listened to sounds that pierced their souls, and 
with each hour felt the weight of impotent compassion weigh heavier and heavier 
upon their hearts. Various and conflicting rumors, conjectures and relations 
from the comrades of the brothers perplexed the seekers, and augmented the dif- 
ficulties of their task. One man affirmed that he saw both Stirlings fall ; a second, 
that both were taken prisoners ; a third, that he had seen both march safely away ; 
and a fourth, that Richard was mortally wounded and Robert missing. But all 
agreed in their admiration for the virtue and the valor of the l^rothers, heartily 
wishing their mother success, and unconsciously applying, by their commenda- 
tion, the only balm that could mitigate her pain. Up and down, from dawn till 
dusk, went the heavy-hearted pair ; but evening came again, and still no sure in- 
telligence, no confirmed fear or happy meeting, lightened the terrible uncertainty 
that tortured them. 

"Dear madam, we have done all that human patience and perseverance can 
do. Now, leave your boys in God's hand, and let me care for you as if you were 
my mother," said the compassionate doctor, as they paused, dusty, jaded and de- 
jected, at the good citizen's hospitable door. 

Mrs. Stirling did not answer him. She sat there, an image of maternal des- 
olation, her hands locked together on her knee, her eyes fixed and unseeing, and 
in her face a still, white anguish piteous to see. With gentlest constraint, her 
friend led her in, laid the gray head down upon a woman breast, and left her to 
the tender care of one who had known a grief like hers. 

For hours she lay where kind hands placed her, physically spent, yet men- 
tally alert as ever. No passing face escaped her, no sound fell unheeded on her 
ear, no movement of those about her was unobserved ; yet she neither spoke, nor 
stirred, nor slept, till midnight gathered cool and dark above a weary world. 
Then a brief lapse into unconsciousness partially repaired the ravages those two 
hard days had wrought. But even when the exhausted body rested, the un- 
wearied soul continued its sad quest, and in her dreams the mother found her 
boys. So vivid was the vision, that she suddenly awoke to find herself thrilled 
with a strange joy, trembling with a strange expectancy. She rose up in her 
bed ; she put away her fallen hair, fast whitening with sorrow's frost, and held 
her breath to listen ; for a cry, urgent, imploring, distant, yet near, seemed ring- 
ing through the room. 

From without came the ceaseless rumble of ambulances and the tread of 
hurrying feet ; from within the sound of women weeping for their dead, and the 
low moaning of a brave oflEicer fast breathing his life away upon his young wife's 



300 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

bosom. No voice spoke that human ear could hear ; yet through the mysterious 
hush that fell upon her in that hour, her spirit heard an exceeding bitter cry : 

"Mother! mother! come to me!" 

Like one possessed by an impulse past control, she left her bed, flung on her 
garments, seized the little store of comforts untouched till now, and, without 
sign or sound, glided like a shadow from the house. 

The solemn peace of night could not so soon descend upon those hills again ; 
nature's tranquillity had been rudely broken ; and, like the suffering humanity that 
cumbered her wounded breast, she seemed to moan in her troubled sleep. Lights 
flashed from hill and hollow, some fixed, some wandering — all beacons of hope 
to the living or funeral torches for the dead. Many feet went to and fro along 
the newly-trodden paths ; dusky figures flitted everywhere, and sounds of suffer- 
ing filled the night wind with a sad lament. But, upheld by a power beyond her- 
self, led by an instinct in which she placed blind faith, and unconscious of doubt, 
or weariness, or fear, the solitary woman walked undaunted and unscathed 
through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 

Out from the crowded town she went, turning neither to the right nor left, 
up a steep path her feet had trodden once that day, straight to the ruined breast- 
works formed of loose fragments of stone, piled there by many hands whose 
earthly labor was already done. There, gathered from am.ong the thickly-strewn 
dead, and sheltered by an awning till they could be taken lower, lay a score of 
men, blue coats and gray, side by side on the bare earth, equals now in courage, 
suffering and patience. The one faithful attendant who kept his watch alone was 
gone for water, that first, greatest need and comfort in hours like those, and the 
dim light of a single lantern flickered through the gloom. Utter silence filled 
the dreary place, till from the remotest corner came a faint, imploring cry, the 
more plaintive and piteous for being a man's voice grown childlike in its weak 
wandering : 

"Mother! mother! come to me!" 

"Who spoke?" 

A woman's voice, breathless and broken, put the question ; a woman's figure 
stood at the entrance of the rude shelter ; and when a wakeful sufferer answered, 
eagerly, "Robert Stirling, just brought in dying. For God's sake help him if you 
can," a woman's face, transfigured with a sudden joy, flashed swiftly, silently be- 
fore his startled eyes, to bend over one low bed, whence came the sound of tender 
speech, prayerful thanksgiving, and the strong sobbing of a man who in his hour 
of extremest need found solace and salvation in the dear refuge of his mother's 
arms. 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 301 



A DAUGHTER'S LOVE 

BEING PART OF THE REMARKABI^E TAI^E ENTITI^ED "THE GOI^DEN INGOT" 

BY FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN 

(Born at Limerick, Ireland, 1S28; died in New York, April 6, 1862) 

HAD just retired to rest, with my eyes almost blind with the study of a 
new work on physiology by M. Brown-Sequard, when the night-bell 
was pulled violently. 

It was Winter, and I confess I grumbled as I rose and went 
downstairs to open the door. Twice that week I had been aroused long 
after midnight for the most trivial causes. Once, to attend upon the 
son and heir of a wealthy family, who had cut his thumb with a penknife, which, 
it seems, he insisted on taking to bed with him ; and once, to restore a young 
gentleman to consciousness, who had been found by his horrified parent stretched 
insensible on the staircase. Diachylon in the one case and ammonia in the other 
were all that my patients required ; and I had a faint suspicion that the present 
summons was perhaps occasioned by no case more necessitous than those I have 
quoted. I was too young in my profession, however, to neglect opportunities. 
It is only when a physician rises to a very large practice that he can afiford to be 
inconsiderate. I was on the first step of the ladder, so I humbly opened my door. 

A woman was standing ankle-deep in the snow that lay upon the stoop. I 
caught but a dim glimpse of her form, for the night was cloudy ; but I could hear 
her teeth rattling like castanets, and, as the sharp wind blew her clothes close to 
her form, I could discern from the sharpness of the outlines that she was very 
scantily supplied with raiment. 

"Come in, come in, my good woman," I said, hastily, for the wind seemed to 
catch eagerly at the opportunity of making itself at home in my hall, and was rap- 
idly forcing an entrance through the half-open door. "Come in ; you can tell me 
all you have to communicate inside." 

She slipped in like a ghost, and I closed the door. While I was striking a 
light in my ofifice, I could hear her teeth still clicking, out in the dark hall, till it 
seemed as if some skeleton was chattering. As soon as I obtained a light I 
begged her to enter the room, and, without occupying myself particularly about 
her appearance, asked her abruptly what her business was. 

"My father has met with a severe accident," she said, "and requires instant 
surgical aid. I entreat you to come to him immediately." 



302 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The freshness and the melody of her voice startled me. Such voices rarely, 
if ever, issue from any but beautiful forms. 

"In what manner was your father hurt?" I asked, in a tone considerably soft- 
ened from the one in which I put my first question. 

"He blew himself up, sir, and is terribly wounded." 

"Ah ! he is in some factory then?" 

"No, sir ; he is a chemist." 

"A chemist ? Why, he is a brother professional. Wait an instant and I 
will slip on my coat and go with you. Do you live far from here?" 

"In Seventh avenue, not more than two blocks from the end of this street." 

"So much the better. We will be with him in a few minutes. Did you leave 
any one in attendance on him ?" 

"No, sir. He will allow no one but myself to enter his laboratory. And, in- 
jured as he is, I could not induce him to quit it." 

"Indeed! He is engaged in some great research, perhaps? I have knovv^n 
such cases." 

We were passing under a lamp-post, and the woman suddenly turned and 
glared at me with a look of such wild terror that for an instant I involuntarily 
glanced round me under the impression that some terrible peril, unseen by me, 
was menacing us both. 

"Don't — don't ask me any questions," she said, breathlessly. "He will tell 
you all. But do, oh, do hasten ! He may be dead by this time !" 

I made no reply, but allowed her to grasp my hand, which she did with a 
bony, nervous clutch, and endeavored with some difficulty to keep pace with the 
long strides — I might well call them bounds, for they seemed the springs of a 
wild animal rather than the paces of a young girl — with which she covered the 
ground. Not a word more was uttered until we stopped before a shabby, old- 
fashioned tenement house in Seventh avenue, not far above Twenty-third street. 
She pushed the door open with a convulsive pressure, and, still retaining hold 
of my hand, literally dragged me upstairs to what seemed to be a back off- 
shoot from the main building, as high, perhaps, as the fourth story. In a mo- 
ment more I found myself in a moderate-sized chamber, lit by a single lamp. In 
one corner, stretched motionless on a wretched pallet-bed, I beheld what I sup- 
posed to be the figure of my patient. 

"He is there," said' the girl ; "go to him. See if he is dead ; I dare not look." 

I made my way as well as I could through the numberless dilapidated chem- 
ical instruments with which the room was littered. 

I approached the wretched pallet-bed on which the victim of chemistry was 
lying. He breathed heavily, and had his head turned toward the wall. I lifted 
his arm gently to arouse his attention. 



FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN 303 

"How goes it, my poor friend?" I asked him. "Where are you hurt?" 

In a moment, as if startled by the sound of my voice, he sprang up in his 
bed, and cowered against the wall like a wild animal driven to bay. 

"Who are you? I don't know you. Who brought you here? You are a 
stranger. How dare you come into my private rooms to spy upon me?" 

And as he uttered this rapidly, with a frightful, nervous energy, I beheld a 
pale, distorted face, draped with long, gray hair, glaring at me with a mingled ex- 
pression of fury and terror. 

"I am no spy," I answered, mildly. "I heard that you had met with an acci- 
dent, and have come to cure you. I am Doctor Luxor, and here is my card." 

The old man took the card and scanned it eagerly. 

"You are a physician?" he inquired, distrustfully. 

"And surgeon also." 

"You are bound by oath not to reveal the secrets of your patients." 

"Undoubtedly." 

"I am afraid that I am hurt," he continued, faintly, half sinking back in 
the bed. 

I seized the opportunity to make a brief examination of his body. I found 
that the arms, a part of the chest, and a part of the face were terribly scorched ; 
but it seemed to me that there was nothing to be apprehended but pain. 

"You will not reveal anything that you may learn here?" said the old man, 
feebly, fixing his eyes on my face while I was applying a soothing ointment to the 
burns. "You will promise me?" 

I nodded assent. 

"Then I will trust you. Cure me ; I will pay you well." 

I could scarce help smiling. If Lorenzo de Medici, conscious of millions of 
ducats in his coffers, had been addressing some leech of the period, he could not 
have spoken with a loftier air than this inhabitant of the fourth story of a tene- 
ment house in Seventh avenue. 

"You must keep quiet," I answered. "Let nothing irritate you. I will 
leave a composing draught with your daughter, which she will give you imme- 
diately. I will see you in the morning. You will be well in a week." 

"Thank God !" came in a murmur from a dusk corner near the door. 

I turned, and beheld the dim outline of the girl, standing with clasped hands 
in the gloom of the dim chamber. 

"My daughter!" screamed the old man, once more leaping up in the bed 
with renewed vitality. "You have seen her then? When? Where? Oh, may 
a thousand cur — " 

"Father! father! Anything — anything but that. Don't, don't curse me!" 



304 r.KST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

And the poor girl, rushing- in, Hung herself sobbing on her knees beside his 
pallet. 

"Ah, brigand! you are there, are you? Sir," said he, turning to me, "I am 
the most unhappy man in the world. Talk of Sisyphus rolling the ever-recoiling 
stone, of Trometheus gnawed by the vulture since the birth of time. The fables 
N et live. There is my rock, forever crushing me back ! There is my eternal vul- 
ture, feeding upon my heart ! There ! there ! there !"' And, with an awful gesture 
of malediction and hatred, he pointed with his wounded hand, swathed and shape- 
less with bandages, at the cowering, sobbing, wordless woman by his side. 

I was too much horror-stricken to attempt even to soothe him. The anger 
of blood against blood has an electric power which paralyzes bystanders. 

"Listen to me, sir," he continued, "while I skin this painted viper. I have 
your oath ; you will not reveal. I am an alchemist, sir. Since I was twenty-two 
years old I have pursued the wonderful and subtle secret. Yes, to unfold the 
mysterious Rose guarded with such terrible thorns ; to decipher the wondrous 
Table of Emerald ; to accomplish the mystic nuptials of the Red King and the 
White Queen ; to marry them soul to soul and l)ody to body for ever and ever, in 
the exact proportions of land and water ; such has been my sublime .aim ; such 
has been the splendid feat that I have accomplished." 

I recognized at a glance, in this incomprehensible farrago, the argot of the 
true alchemist. Ripley, Flamel and others have supplied the world, in their 
works, with the melancholy spectacle of a scientific Bedlam. 

"Two years since," continued the poor man, growing more and more ex- 
cited with every word that he uttered — "two years since I succeeded in solving 
the great problem, in transmuting the baser metals into gold. None but myself, 
that girl, and God knows the privations I had suffered up to that time. Food, 
clothing, air, exercise, everything but shelter, was sacrificed toward the one great 
end. Success at last crowned my labors. That which Nicholas Flamel did in 
1382; that which George Ripley did at Rhodes in 1460; that which Alexander 
Sethon and Michael Scudivogius did in the seventeenth century. I did in 1856. I 
made gold! I said to myself, 'I will astonish New York more than Flamel did 
Taris.' 

"So I toiled on. Day after day I gave to this girl here what gold I succeeded 
in fabricating, telling her to store it away after supplying our necessities. I was 
astonished to perceive that we lived as poorly as ever. I reflected, however, that 
it was perhaps a commendable piece of prudence on the part of my daughter. 
Doubtless, I said, she argues that the less we spend the sooner we shall accumu- 
late a capital wherewith to live at ease ; so, thinking her course a wise one, I did 
not reproach her with her niggardliness, but toiled on amid want with closed lips. 
'The gold which I fabricated was, as I said before, of an invariable size, 



FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN 305 

namely, a little ingot worth perhaps thirty or forty-five dollars. In two years I 
calculated that I had made five hundred of these ingots, which, rated at an aver- 
age of thirty dollars apiece, would amount to the gross sum of fifteen thousand 
dollars. After deducting our slight expenses for two years, we ought to have 
nearly fourteen thousand dollars left. ''' * * 

"She could afiford me no explanation beyond what I might gather from an 
abundance of sobs and a copious flow of tears. 

"It was a bitter blow, Doctor, but nil dcspcrandum was my motto, so I went 
to work at my crucible again, with redoubled energy, and made an ingot nearly 
every second day. I determined this time to put them in some secure place my- 
self; but the very first day I set my apparatus in order for the projection, the girl 
Marian — that is my daughter's name — came weeping to me and implored me to 
allow her to take care of our treasure. I refused, decisively, saying that, having 
found her already incapable of filling the trust, I could place no faith in her again. 
But she persisted, clung to my neck, threatened to abandon me, in short used so 
many of the bad but irresistible arguments known to women, that I had not the 
heart to refuse her. She has since that time continued to take the ingots. 

"Yet you behold," continued the old alchemist, casting an inexpressibly 
mournful glance around the wretched apartment, "the way we live. Our food is 
insufficient and of bad quality ; we never buy clothes ; the rent of this hole is a 
mere nothing. What am I to think of the wretched girl who plunges me into 
this misery? Is she a miser, think you? or a female gamester? or — or — does she 
squander it riotously in places 1 know not of? Oh, Doctor, Doctor ! do not blame 
me if I heap imprecations on her head, for I have suffered bitterly !" The poor 
man here closed his eyes and sank back groaning on his bed. 

"May you not be mistaken in your daughter?" I said, very mildly. "De- 
lusions with regard to alchemy are, or have been, very common " 

"What, sir?" cried the old man, bounding in his bed. "Wliat? Do you 
doubt that gold can be made? Do you know, sir, that M. C. Theodore TifYereau 
made gold at Paris, in the year 1854, in the presence of M. Levol, the assayer of 
the Imperial Mint, and the result of the experiment was read before the Academy 
of Sciences on the i6th of October of the same year? But stay; you shall have 
better proof yet. I will pay you with one of my ingots, and you shall attend me 
until I am well. Get me an ingot !" 

This last command was addressed to Marian, who was still kneeling close to 
her father's bedside. 

I observed her with some curiosity as this mandate was issued. She 
became very pale, clasped her hands convulsively, but neither moved nor 
made any reply. 

"Get me an ingot, I say !" reiterated the alchemist, passionately. 



3o6 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

She fixed her large eyes imploringly upon him. Her lips quivered, and two 
huge tears rolled slowly down her white cheeks. 

"Ohey me, wretched girl," cried the old man in an agitated voice, "or I 
swear, by all that I reverence in heaven and earth, that I will lay my curse upon 
you forever !" 

I felt for an instant that I ought perhaps to interfere, and spare the girl the 
anguish that she was so evidently suffering ; but a powerful curiosity to see how 
this strange scene would terminate withheld me. 

The last threat of her father, uttered as it was with a terrible vehemence, 
seemed to appal Marfan. She rose with a sudden leap, as if a serpent had stung 
her, and, rushing into an inner apartment, returned with a small object in her 
hand, which she placed in mine, and then flung herself in a chair in a distant cor- 
ner of the room, weeping bitterly. 

"You see — you see." said the old man. sarcastically, "how reluctantly she 
parts with it. Take it. sir; it is yours " 

It was a small bar of metal. I examined it carefully, poised it in my hand ; 
the color, weight, everything, announced that it really was gold. 

"You doubt its genuineness, perhaps," continued the alchemist. "There arc 
acids on yonder table ; test it." 

I confess that I did doubt its genuineness ; but after I had acted upon the old 
man's suggestion, all further suspicion was rendered impossible. It was gold of 
the highest purit}-. I was astounded. Was then, after all. this man's tale a truth ? 
Was his daughter, that fair, angelic-looking creature, a demon of avarice, or a 
slave to worse passions? I felt bewildered. I had never met with anything so 
incomprehensible. 1 loiiked from father to daughter in the blankest amazement. 
I suppose that my countenance betrayed ni} astonishment, for the old man said : 

"I perceive that you arc surprised. \\'ell. that is natural. You had a right 
to think me mad until I proved myself sane." 

"But, Mr. Blakelock." I said, "I really cannot take this gold. I have no 
right to it. I cannot in justice charge so large a fee." 

"Take it — take it," he answered, impatiently ; "your fee will amount to that 
before I am well. Besides," he added, mysteriously, "I wish to secure your 
friendship. I wish that you should protect me from her," and he pointed his 
poor, bandaged hand at ]\Iarian. 

My eye followed his gesture, and I caught the glance that replied — a glance 
of horror, distrust, despair. The beautiful face was distorted into positive ugli- 
ness. 

"It's all true." I thought; "she is the demon that her father represents her." 

I now rose to go. This domestic tragedy sickened me. This treachery of 
blood against blood was too horrible to witness. I wrote a prescription for the 



FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN 307 

old man, left directions as to the renewal of the dressings upon his burns, and, 
bidding him good night, hastened towards the door. 

While 1 \^'as fumbling on the dark, crazy landing for the staircase, I felt a 
hand laid on my arm. 

"Doctor," whispered a voice that I recognized as Marian Blakelock's — 
"Doctor, have you any compassion in your heart?" 

"I hope so," I answered, shortly, shaking ofi her hand, her touch filling me 
with loathing. 

"Hush! don't talk so loud. If you have any pity in your nature, give me 
back, I entreat of you, that gold ingot which my father gave you this evening." 

"Great heavens!" said I, "can it be possible that so fair a woman can be 
such a mercenary, shameless wretch ?" 

"Ah ! you know not — I cannot tell you ! Do not judge me harshly. I call 
God to witness that I am not what you deem me. Some day or other you will 
know. But," she added, interrupting herself, "the ingot — where is it? I must 
have it. My life depends on your giving it to me." 

"Take it, imposter !" I cried, placing it in her hand, that closed on it with a 
horrible eagerness. "I never intended to keep it. Gold made under the same 
roof that covers such as you must be accursed." 

So saying, heedless of the nervous effort she made to detain me, I stumbled 
down the stairs and walked hastily home. 

The next morning, while I was in my ofifice, smoking my matutinal cigar, 
and speculating over the singular character of my acquaintance of last night, the 
door opened, and Marian Blakelock entered. She had the same look of terror 
that I observed the evening before, and she panted as if she had been running 
fast. 

"Father has got out of bed," she gasped out, "and insists on going on with 
his alchemy. Will it kill him?" 

"Not exactly," I answered, coldly. "It were better that he kept quiet, so 
as to avoid the chance of inflammation. However, yoii need not be alarmed ; his 
burns are not at all dangerous, although painful." 

"Thank God! thank God!" she cried, in the most impassioned accents; and, 
before I was aware of what she was doing, she seized my hand and kissed it. 

"There, that will do," T said, withdrawing my hand ; "you are under no obli- 
gations to me. You had better go back to your father." 

"I can't go," she answered. "You despise me; is it not so?" 

T made no reply. 

"You think me a monster — a criminal. When you went home last night 
vou were wonder-struck that so vile a creature as I should have so fair a face." 



3o8 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"You eml)arrass me, madam," I said, in a most chilling tone. "Pray, relieve 
me from this unpleasant position." 

"Wait ! I cannot bear that you should think ill of me. You are good and 
kind, and I desire to possess your esteem. You little know how I love my 
father." 

I could not restrain a bitter smile. 

"You do not believe that? Well, I will convince you. I have had a hard 
struggle all last night with myself, but am now resolved. This life of deceit must 
continue no longer. Will you hear my vindication?" 

I assented. The wonderful melody of her voice and the purity of her feat- 
ures were charming me once more. I half believed in her innocence already. 

"My father has told you a portion of his history. But he did not tell you 
that his continued failures in his search after the secret of metallic transmutation 
nearly killed him. Two years ago he was on the verge of the grave, working 
every day at his mad pursuit, and every day growing weaker and more emaciated. 
I saw that if his mind was not relieved in sorne way he would die. The thought 
was madness to me, for I loved him ; I love him still, as a daughter never loved 
a father before. During all these years of poverty I had supported the house 
with my needle ; it was hard work, but I did it ; I do it still." 

"What?" I cried, startled, "does not " 

"Patience. Hear me out. My father was dying of disappointment. I must 
save him. By incredible exertions, working night and day, I saved about thirty- 
five dollars in notes. These I exchanged for gold, and one day, when my father 
was not looking, I cast them into the crucible in which he was making one of his 
transmutations. God, I am sure, will pardon the deception. I never anticipated 
the misery it would lead to. 

"I never beheld anything like the joy of my poor father, when, after empty- 
ing his crucible, he found a deposit of pure gold at the bottom. He wept, and 
danced, and sang, and built such castles in the air, that my brain was dizzy to hear 
him. He gave me the ingot to keep, and went to work at his alchemy with re- 
newed vigor. The same thing occurred. He always found the same quantity of 
gold in his crucible. I alone knew the secret. He was happy, poor man, for 
nearly two years, in the belief that he was amassing a fortune. I all the while 
plied my needle for our daily bread. When he asked me for his savings, the 
first stroke fell upon me. Then it was that I recognized the folly of my conduct. 
I could give him no money. I never had any, while he believed that I had four- 
teen thousand dollars. My heart was nearly broken when I found that he had 
conceived the most injurious suspicion against me. Yet I could not blame him. 
I could give no account of the treasure I had permitted him to believe was in my 



FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN 309 

possession. I must suffer the penalty of my fault, for to undeceive him would 
be, I felt, to kill him. I remained silent then, and suffered. 

"You know the rest. You now know why it w^as that I was reluctant to 
give you that ingot ; why it was that I degraded myself so far as to ask it back. 
It was the only means I had of continuing a deception on which I believed my 
father's life depended. But that delusion has been dispelled. I can live this life 
of hypocrisy no longer. I cannot exist, and linear my father, whom I love so, 
wither me daily with his curses. I will undeceive him this very day. Will you 
come with me, for I fear the effect on his enfeebled frame?" 

When we reached the old alchemist's room, we found him busily engaged 
over a crucible which was placed on a small furnace, and in which some inde- 
scribable mixture was boiling. He looked up as we entered. 

"No fear of me, Doctor," he said, with a ghastly smile — "no fear. I must 
not allow a little physical pain to interrupt my great work, you know. By the 
way, you are just in time. In a few moments the marriage of the Red King and 
White Queen will be accomplished, as George Ripley calls the great act, in his 
book entitled, 'The Twelve Gates.' Yes, Doctor, in less than ten minutes you 
will see me make pure, red, shining gold !" And the poor old man smiled tri- 
umphantly, and stirred his foolish mixture with a long rod, which he held with 
difficulty in his bandaged hands. It was a grievous sight for a man of any feeling 
to witness. 

"Father," said Marian, in a low, broken voice, advancing a little toward the 
poor old dupe, "I want your forgiveness." 

"Ah, hypocrite! for what? Are you going to give me back my gold?" 

"No, father, but for the deception that I have been practising on you for two 
years " 

"I knew it! I knew it!" shouted the old man, with a radiant countenance. 
"She has concealed my fourteen thousand dollars all this time, and now comes to 
restore them. I will forgive her. Where are they, Marian ?" 

"Father, it must come out. You never made any gold. It was I who saved 
up thirty-five dollars, and I used to slip them into your crucible when your back 
was turned, and I did it only because I saw that you were dying of disappoint- 
ment. It was wrong, I know, but, father, I meant well. You'll forgive me, won't 
you ?" And the poor girl advanced a step toward the alchemist. 

He grew deathly pale, and staggered as if about to fall. The next instant, 
though, he recovered himself, and burst into a horrible, sardonic laugh. Then he 
said, in tones full of the bitterest irony : 

"A conspiracy, is it? Well done. Doctor! You think to reconcile me with 
this wretched girl by trumping up this story, that I have been for two years a 
dupe of her filial piety. It's clumsy, Doctor, and is a total failure. Try again." 



310 BEST THINGS FROM AMHKICAX LITERATURE 

"But I assure you, Mr. Blakelock," I said, as earnestly as I could, "I believe 
)Our daughter's statements to be perfectly true. You will find it to be so, as she 
has got the ingot in her possession which so often deceived you into the belief 
that you made gold, and you will certainly find that no transmutation has taken 
place in your crucible." 

"Doctor," said the old man. in tones of the most settled conviction, "you are 
a fool. That girl has wheedled you. In less than a minute I will turn you out 
a piece of gold, purer than any the earth produces. Will that convince you?" 

"That will convince me," I answered. 

By a gesture I imj)osed silence on Marian, who was about to speak. T 
thought it better to allow the old man to be his own undeceiver. and we awaited 
the coming crisis. 

The old man, still smiling with anticipated triumph, kept bending eagerly 
over his crucible, stirring the mixture with his rod, and muttering to himself all 
the time. "Now," I heard him say, "it changes. There — there's the scum. 
And now the green and bronze shades Hit across it. Oh. the beautiful green ! the 
precursor of tiie golden-red hue. that tells of the end attained ! Ah ! now the 
golden-red is coming — slowly — slowly ! It deepens, it shines, it is dazzling ! 
Ah. T have it!" So saying, he caught up his crucible in a chemist's tongs, and 
hove it slowly toward the table on which stood a brass vessel. 

"Now, incredulous Doctor!" he cried, "come and be convinced;" and imir.e- 
diately began carefully pouring the contents of the crucible into the brass vessel. 
When the crucible was quite empty, he turned it up, and called me again. 

"Come, Doctor ; come and be convinced. See for yourself." 

"See first if there is any gold in your crucible," I answered, without moving. 

He laughed, shook his head derisively, and looked into the crucible. In a 
moment he grew pale as death. 

"Nothing!" he cried. "Oh, a jest! a jest! There must be gold somewhere. 
Marian !" 

"The gold is here, father," said Marian, drawing the ingot from her pocket : 
"it is all we ever had." 

"Ah !" shrieked the poor old man. as he let the empty crucible fall, and stag- 
gered toward the ingot which Marian held out to him. He made three steps, 
and then fell on his face. Marian rushed toward him. and tried to lift him, but 
could not. I put her aside gently, and placed my hand on his heart. 

"Marian," said I, "it is perhaps better as it is. He is dead!" 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 311 



NATURE 

FROM THE ESSAY UNDER THAT TITl,E 

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

(Born at Boston, Mass., May 25, 1803 ; died at Concord, Mass., April 27, 1882) 

F the Stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would 
men believe and adore and preserve for many generations the re- 
membrance of the City of God which had been shown ? But every 
night come out these preachers of beauty and light the universe with 
their admonishing smile. 

The stars awaken a certain reverence, because, though always pres- 
ent, they are always inaccessible ; but all natural objects make kindred impression 
when the mind is open to their influence. Nature never wears a mean appear- 
ance. Neither does the wisest man extort all her secrets and lose his curiosity by 
finding out all her perfection. Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit. The 
flowers, the animals, the mountains reflected all the wisdom of his best hour as 
much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood. 

When we speak of Nature in this manner, we have a distinct but most 
poetical sense in the mind. We mean the integrity of impression made by mani- 
fold nature objects. It is this which distinguishes the stick of timber of the wood- 
cutter from the tree of the poet. The charming landscape which I saw this 
morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns 
this field, Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them 
owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he 
whose eye can integrate all the parts — that is, the poet. This is the best part of 
these men's farms, yet to this their land-deeds give them no title. 

To speak truly, few adult persons can see Nature. Most persons do not see 
the sun. At least they have a very superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only 
the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child. The lover 
of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still adjusted to each other — 
who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His inter- 
course with heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food. In the presence 
of nature a wild delight runs through the man in spite of real sorrows. Nature 
says, He is my creature, and, maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad 
with me. Not the sun nor the Summer alone, but every hour and season yields 
its tribute of delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a 




RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



312 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 313 

different state of mind, from breathless noon to grimmest midnight. Nature is a 
setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning piece. In good health the 
air is a cordial of incredible virtue. Crossing a bare common in snow-puddles 
at twilight under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of 
special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. Almost I fear to 
think how glad I am. In the woods, too, a man casts off his years as the snake 
his slough, and at what period soever of his life is always a child. In the woods 
is perpetual youth. Within these plantations of God a decorum and sanctity 
reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of 
them in a thousand years. In the woods we return to reason and faith. There 
I feel that nothing can befall me in life — no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my 
eyes) — which Nature cannot repair. * * * * f lie greatest delight which the 
fields and woods minister is the suggestion of an occult relation between man 
and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me and 
I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm is new to me and old. 

It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a 
higher thought or a better emotion coming over me when I deemed I was think- 
ing justly or doing right. 

Yet it is certain that the power to produce this delight does not reside in 
Nature, but in man or in a harmony of both. It is necessary to use these pleas- 
ures with great temperance. For Nature is not always tricked in holiday attire, 
but the scene which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as for the frolic of 
the nymphs is overspread with melancholy to-day. Nature always wears the 
colors of the spirit. To a man laboring under calamity the heat of his own fire 
hath sadness in it. Then there is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him 
who has just lost by death a dear friend. The sky is less grand as it shuts down 
over less worth in the population. 




DANIEL WEBSTER 



314 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAX LITERATURE 315 



REPLY TO HAYNE 

BEING A PART OF THE MOST CELEBRATED SPEECH OF 

DANIEL WEBSTER 

(Born at Salisbury, now Franklin, N. H., Jan. i8, 1782 ; died atMarshfield, Mass., Oct. 24, 1852) 

was put as a question to me to answer, and so put as if it were-difficult 
for me to answer, whether I deemed the member from Missouri an over- 
match for myself in debate here. It seems to me, sir, that this is ex- 
traordinary language and an extraordinary tone for the discussions of 
this body. Matches and overmatches! — those terms are more appli- 
cable elsewhere than here, and fitter for other assemblies than this. Sir, 
the gentleman seems to forget where and what we are. This is a senate — a sen- 
ate of equals, of men of individual honor and personal character, and of absolute 
independence. We know no masters ; we acknowledge no dictators. This is a 
hall for mutual consultation and discussion ; not an arena for the exhibition of 
champions. I offer myself, sir, as a match for no man. I throw the challenge of 
debate at no man's feet. But then, sir, since the honorable member has put the 
question in a manner that calls for an answer, I will give him an answer ; and I tell 
him, that, holding myself to be the humblest of the members here, I yet know 
nothing in the arm of his friend from Missouri, either alone or when aided by the 
arm of his friend from South Carolina, that need deter even me from espousing 
whatever opinions I may choose to espouse, from debating whenever I may 
choose to debate, or from speaking whatever I may see fit to say on the floor of the 
Senate. Sir, when uttered as matter of commendation or compliment, I should 
dissent from nothing which the honorable member might say of his friend. Still 
less do I put forth any pretensions of my own. But, when put to me as a matter 
of taunt, I throw it back, and say to the gentleman, that he could possibly say 
nothing less likely than such a comparison to wound my pride of personal charac- 
ter. The anger of its tone rescued the remark from intentional irony, which other- 
wise, probably, would have been its general acceptation. But, sir, if it be imag- 
ined that by this mutual quotation and commendation ; if it be supposed that by 
casting the characters of the drama, assigning to each his part — to one the attack, 
to another the cry of onset ; or if it be thought that by a loud and empty vaunt of 
anticipated victory — any laurels are to be won here ; if it be imagined, especiallv, 
that any or all of these things will shake any purpose of mine, I can tell the honor- 
able member, once for all, that he is greatly mistaken, and that he is dealing with 



3i6 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

one of whose temper and character he has yet much to learn. Sir, I shall not al- 
low myself on this occasion to be betrayed into any loss of temper ; but if pro- 
voked, as I trust I never shall allow myself to be, into crimination and recrimina- 
tion, the honorable member may perhaps find, that in the contest there will be 
blows to take as well as blows to give ; that others can state comparisons as signi- 
ficant, at least, as his own ; and that his impunity may, perhaps, demand of him 
whatever powers of taunt and sarcasm he may possess. I commend him to a 
prudent husbandry of his resources. 

;|: ;!: :[: * ^: * * 

The eulogium pronounced on the character of the State .of South Carcrlina 
by the honorable gentleman, for her revolutionary and other merits, meets my 
hearty concurrence. I shall not acknowledge that the honorable member goes 
before me in regard for whatever of distinguished talent or distinguished char- 
acter South Carolina has produced. I claim part of the honor. I partake in the 
pride of her great names. I claim them for countrymen, one and all — the Lau- 
rences, the Rutledges, the Pinckneys, the Sumters, the Marions (Americans all), 
whose fame is no more to be hemmed in by State lines than their talents and pa- 
triotism were capable of being circumscribed within the same narrow limits. In 
their day and generation, they served and honored the country, and the whole 
country ; and their renown is of the treasures of the whole country. Him whose 
honored name the gentleman bears himself — does he suppose me less capable of 
gratitude for his patriotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if his eyes had 
first opened upon the light in Massachusetts, instead of South Carolina? Sir, 
does he suppose it in his power to exhibit a Carolina name so bright as to pro- 
duce envy in my bosom ? No, sir ! — increased gratification and delight, rather. 
Sir, I thank God that, if I am gifted with little of the spirit which is said to be 
able to raise mortals to the skies, I have yet none, as I trust, of that other spirit 
which would drag angels down. 

When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the Senate, or elsewhere, to 
sneer at public merit because it happened to spring up beyond the little limits of 
my own State and neighborhood ; when I refuse for any such cause, or for any 
cause, the homage due to American talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere de- 
votion to liberty and the country ; or if I see an uncommon endowment of heaven, 
if I see extraordinary capacity and virtue in any son of the South, and if, moved 
by local prejudice, or gangrened by State jealousy, I get up here to abate the 
tithe of a hair from his just character and just fame, may my tongue cleave to the 
roof of my mouth ! Sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections ; let me indulge in 
refreshing remembrances of the past ; let me remind you, that, in early times, no 
States cherished greater harmony, both of principle and of feeling, than Mass- 
achusetts and South Carolina. Would to God that harmony might again return ! 



DANIEL WEBSTER 317 

Shoulder to shoulder they went through the Revolution ; hand in hand they stood 
round the administration of Washington, and felt his own great arm lean on them 
for support. Unkind feeling (if it exist), alienation, and distrust, are the growth, 
unnatural to such soils, of false principles since sown. They are weeds, the seeds 
of which that same great arm never scattered. 

:|: * * * ;k * * 

Mr. President, 1 shall enter no encomium upon Massachusetts ; she needs 
none. There she is ; behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history ; 
the world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and 
Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill ; and there they will remain forever. 
The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie 
mingled with the soil of every State, from New England to Georgia ; and there 
they will lie forever. And, sir, where American liberty raised its first voice, and 
where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives in the strength of 
its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If discord and disunion shall wound it ; 
if party strife and blind ambition shall hawk at and tear it ; if folly and madness, if 
uneasiness under salutary and necessary restraint, shall succeed to separate it 
from that Union by which alone its existence is made sure, it will stand in the end 
by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked ; it .will stretch forth its 
arm, with whatever of vigor it may still retain, over the friends who gather round 
it ; and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amidst the proudest monuments of its own 
glory, and on the very spot of its origin. 

****** 5|c 

Mr. President, I have thus stated the reasons of my dissent to the doctrines 
which have been advanced and maintained. I am conscious of having detained 
you and the Senate much too long. I was drawn into the debate with no previous 
deliberation such as is suited to the discussion of so grave and important a sub- 
ject ; but it is a subject of which my heart is full ; and I have not been willing to 
suppress the utterance of its spontaneous sentiments. I can not, even now, per- 
suade myself to relinquish it, without expressing once more my deep conviction, 
that, since it respects nothing less than the union of the States, it is of most vital 
and essential importance to the public happiness. I profess, sir, in my career 
hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole 
country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that Union that we 
owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that 
Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our 
country. That Union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues in the 
severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered fi- 
nance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these 
great interests immediately awoke as from the dead, and sprang forth with new- 



^^iS niuST THINGS I' ROM AMI'.KICAN MTJ^RATURE 

iH\ss of life, livery year of its duralion has Iccnicd with fresh proofs of its utiUty 
and its blessings; and althongh our territory has stretched out wider and wider, 
antl our population spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its protection 
or its benefits. It has been U) us all a copious fountain of national, social and 
personal happiness. 1 have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union to 
see what might lie hidtlen in the dark recess behind. 1 have not coolly weighed 
the chances of ])reserving liberty when the bonds that unite us together shall be 
broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of 
ilisunii)n to see whether, with my short sight. I can fathom the depth of the abyss 
below; nor could I regard bim as a safe counselor in the atTairs of this govern- 
ment whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union 
should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people 
w hen it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, 
exciting, gratifving prospects spread out before us for us and our children. Be- 
Nond that, I seek not to penetrate the veil, God grant, that, in my day at least, 
that curtain ma\ not rise! Cod grant, that on my vision never may be opened 
what lies behind! When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the 
sun in heaven, max 1 not see him shining on the broken and dishonored frag- 
ments of a once-glorious Tnion ; on States dissexered. discordant, belligerent; on 
a land rent xxith civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! Let their 
last feel)le and lingering glance rather behold the gliM-icnis ensign of the Republic, 
now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms 
;ind trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor 
a single star obscured; bearing for its motto i\o such miserable interrogatory, as 
//■/;(// is all this icortli.' nor those other xxords of delusion and folly. Liberty tirst, 
iuul (■;;/()// aftcrti'drds: but everxxxhere, sjiread all over in characters of living 
light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they tloat over the sea and over the land, 
and in everv xvind under the whole heavens, that other setUiment, dear to every 
true American heart, Libert v and LTnion. noxx and forever, one and inseparable. 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 319 



THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER 

BY "JOSIAH ALLEN'S WIFE" 

(MARIETTA HOLLEY) 

The spare-room windows wide were raised, 
And you could look that Summer day 

On pastures green, and sunny hills, 
And low rills wandering away. 

Nearby, the square front-yard was sweet 
With rose and caraway. 

Upon a couch drawn near the light 
The Deacon's only daughter lay, 

Bending upon the distant hills 

Her eyes of dark and thoughtful gray ; 

The blue veins on her forehead shone — 
'Twas wasted so away. 

She moved, and from her slender hand 
Fell ofif her mother's wedding-ring ; 

She smiled into her father's face — 

"So drops from me each earthly thing; 

My hands are free to hold the flowers 
Of the eternal Spring." 

She had ever walked in quiet ways, 
Not over beds of flowery ease, 

But Sundays in the village choir 

v^he sweetly sang of "ways of peace," 

Of "ways of peace and pleasantness," 
She trod such paths as these. 

No sweeter voice in all the choir 
Praised God in innocence and truth. 

The Deacon in his straight-backed pew 
Had dreams of her he lost in youth. 

And thought of fair-faced Hebrew maids — 
Of Rachel and of Ruth. 




MARIETTA HOLLEY 



320 



MARIETTA HOLLEY 321 

But she had faded, day by day, 

Growing more mild and pure and sweet, 
As nearer to her ear there came 

A distant sea's mysterious beat, 
Till now this Summer afternoon, 

Its water touched her feet. 

Upon the painted porch without 

Two women stood, and whispered low, 
They thought "she'd go out with the day," 

They said, "the Deacon's wife went so." 
And then they gently pitied him — 

"It was a dreadful blow." 

"But she was good, she was prepared. 

She would be better off than here," 
And then they thought "'twas strange that he 

Her father, had not shed a tear," 
And then they talked of news, and all 

The promise of the year. 

Her father sat beside the bed, 

Holding her cold hands tenderly, 
And to the everlasting hills 

He mutely turned his eyes away : 
"My God, my Shelter, and my Rock, 

Oh, shadow me to-day !" 

He knew not when she crossed the stream, 

And passed into the land unseen, 
So gently did she go from him 

Into its pastures still and green ; 
Into the land of pure delight. 

And Jordan rolled between. 

Then knelt he down beside his dead. 

His white locks lit with sunset's flame : 
"My God! oh, leave me not alone — 

But blessed be Thy holy name." 
The golden gates were lifted up ; 

The King of Glory came. 




OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 323 



WIT AND WISDOM 

FROM "The; autocrat of the breakfast TABI,E" 

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

(Born at Cambridge, Mass., August 29, 1S09 ; died October 7, 1894) 

WAS just going to say, when I was interrupted, that one of the many 
ways of classifying minds is under the heads of arithmetical and alge- 
braical intellects. All economical and practical wisdom is an extension 
or variation of the following arithmetical formula : 2 plus 2 equals 4. 
Every philosophical proposition has the more general character of the 
expression : a plus b equals c. We are mere operatives, empirics, and 
egotists, until we learn to think in letters instead of figures. 

They all stared. There is a divinity-student lately come among us, to whom 
I commonly address remarks like the above, allowing him to take a certain share 
in the conversation, so far as assent or pertinent questions are involved. He 
abused his liberty on this occasion by presuming to say that Leibnitz had the same 
observation. "No, sir," I replied, "he has not. But he said a mighty good thing 
about mathematics, that sounds something like it ; and you found it, not in the 
original, but quoted by Dr. Thomas Reid. I will tell the company what he did 
say, one of these days." 

If I belong to a Society of Mutual Admiration? — I blush to say that I 

do not at this present moment. I once did, however. It was the first association 
to which I ever heard the term applied — a body of scientific young men in a great 
foreign city who admired their teacher, and, to some extent, each other. Many 
of them deserved it ; they have become famous since. It amuses me to hear the 
talk of one of those beings described by Thackeray — 

"Letters four do form his name" — 

about a social development which belongs to the very noblest stage of civiliza- 
tion. All generous companies of artists, authors, philanthropists, men of science, 
are, or ought to be, Societies of Mutual Admiration. A man of genius, or any 
kind of superiority, is not debarred from admiring the same quality in another, 
nor the other from returning his admiration. They may even associate together,, 
and continue to think highly of each other. And so of a dozen such men, if any 
one place is fortunate enough to hold so many. The being referred to above as- 



324 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

siinies several false premises. First : that men of talent necessarily hate each 
other. Secondly : that intimate knowledge or habitual association destroys our 
admiration of persons whom we esteemed highly at a distance. Thirdly : that a 
circle of clever fellows, who meet together to dine and have a good time, have 
signed a constitutional compact to glorify themselves, and to put down him and 
the fraction of the human race not belonging to their number. Fourthly : that 
it is an outrage that he is not asked to join them. 

Here the company laughed a good deal ; and the old gentleman who sits op- 
posite said : "That's it ! that's it !" 

I continued ; for I was in the talking vein. As to clever people's hating each 
other, I think a little extra talent does sometimes make people jealous. They 
become irritated by perpetual attempts and failures, and it hurts their tempers 
and dispositions. Unpretending mediocrity is good, and genius is glorious ; but 
a weak flavor of genius in an essentially common person is detestable. It spoils 
the grand neutrality of a commonplace character, as the rinsings of an unwashed 
wineglass spoil a draught of fair water. No wonder the poor fellow we spoke of, 
who always belongs to this class of slightly-favored mediocrities, is puzzled and 
vexed by the strange sight of a dozen men of capacity working and playing to- 
gether in harmony. He and his fellows are always fighting. With them, famil- 
iarity naturally breeds contempt. If they ever praise each other's bad drawings, 
or broken- winded novels, or spavined verses, nobody ever supposed it was from 
admiration ; it was simply a contract between themselves and a publisher or 
dealer. 

If the Mutuals have really nothing among them worth admiration, that alters 
the question. But, if they are men with noble powers and qualities, let me tell 
you, that, next to youthful love and family affections, there is no human senti- 
ment better than that which unites the Societies of Mutual Admiration. And 
what would literature or art be v/'thout such associations? Who can tell what 
we owe to the Mutual Admiration Society of which Shakespeare and Ben Jon- 
son and Beaumont and Fletcher, were members? Or to that of which Addison 
and Steele formed the center, and which gave us "The Spectator"? Or to that 
where Johnson and Goldsmith and Burke and Reynolds and Beauclerc and 
Boswell, most admiring among all admirers, met together? Was there any great 
harm in the fact that the Irvings and Paulding wrote in company? Or any un- 
pardonable cabal in the literary union of A'erplanck and Bryant and Sands, and as 
many more as they chose to associate with them ? 

The poor creature does net know what he is talking about when he abuses 
this noblest of institutions. I ct him inspect its mysteries through the knot-hole 
he has secured, but not use that orifice as a medium for his popgun. Such a so- 
ciety is the crown of a literary metropolis ; if a town has not material for it, and 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 325 

spirit and good feeling enough to organize it, it is a mere caravansary, fit for a 
man of genius to lodge in, but not to live in. Foolish people hate and dread and 
envy such an association of men of varied powers and influence because it is lofty, 
serene, impregnable, and, by the necessity of the case, exclusive. Wise ones are 
prouder of the title M. S. AL A. than of all their other honors put together. 

All generous minds have a horror of what are commonly called "facts." 

They are the brute beasts of the intellectual domain. Who does not know fel- 
lows that always have an ill-conditioned fact or two which they lead after them 
into decent company like so many bulldogs, ready to let them slip at every in- 
genious suggestion, or convenient generalization, or pleasant fancy? I allow no 
"facts" at this table. What ! Because bread is good and wholesome and neces- 
sary and nourishing, shall you thrust a crumb into my windpipe while I am talk- 
ing? Do not these muscles of mine represent a hundred loaves of bread? And 
is not my thought the abstract of ten thousand of these crumbs of truth with 
which you would choke off my speech ? 

[The above remark must be conditioned and (jualified for the vulgar mind. 
The reader will, of course, understand the precise amount of seasoning which 
must be added to it before he adopts it as one of the axioms of his life. The 
speaker disclaims all responsibility for its abuse in incompetent hands.] 

This business of conversation is a very serious matter. There are men that it 
weakens one to talk with an hour more than a day's fasting would do. Mark this 
that I am going to say ; for it is as good as a working professional man's advice, 
and costs you nothing . It is better to lose a pint of blood from your veins than 
to have a nerve tapped. Nobody measures your nervous force as it runs away, 
nor bandages your brain and marrow after the operation. 

There are men of esprit who are excessively exhausting to some people. 
They are the talkers who have what may be called jerky minds. Their thoughts 
do not run in the natural order of sequence. They say bright things on all possi- 
ble su])jects ; but their zigzags rack you to death. After a jolting half-hour with 
one of these jerky companions, talking with a dull friend affords great relief. It 
is like taking the cat in your lap after holding a squirrel. 

What a comfort a dull but kindly person is, to be sure, at times ! A ground- 
glass shade over a gas-lamp does not bring more solace to our dazzled eyes than 
such a one to our minds. 

"Do not dull persons bore you ?" said one of the lady boarders, the same that 
sent me her autograph-book last week with a request for a few original stanzas, 
not remembering that "The Pactolian" pays me five dollars a line for every thing 
I write in its columns. 

"Madam," said 1 (she and the century were in their teens together), "all men 



326 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

are bores, except when we want them. There never was but one man whom I 
would trust with my latch-key." 

"Who might that favored person be?" 

"Zimmerman." 

The men of genius that I fancy most have erectile heads like the cobra- 

di-capello. You remember what they tell of William Pinkney, the great pleader ; 
how, in his elocjuent paroxysms, the veins of his neck would swell, and his face 
flush, and his eyes glitter, until he seemed on the verge of apoplexy. The hy- 
draulic arrangements for supplying the brain with blood are only second in im- 
portance to its own organization. The bulbous-headed fellows that steam well 
when they are at work are the men that draw big audiences, and give us marrowy 
])ooks and pictures. It is a good sign to have one's feet grow cold when he is 
writing. A great writer and speaker once told me that he often wrote with his 
feet in hot water ; but for this, all his blood would have run into his head, as the 
mercury sometimes withdraws into the ball of a thermometer. 

You don't suppose that my remarks made at this table are like so many 

postage-stamps, do you, each to be only once uttered? If you do, you are mis- 
taken. He must be a poor creature that does not often repeat himself. Imagine 
the author of the excellent piece of advice, "Know Thyself," never alluding to 
that sentiment again during the course of a protracted existence ! W^hy, the 
truths a man carries about with him are his tools ; and do you think a carpenter 
is bound to use the same plane but once to smooth a knotty board with, or to 
hang up his hammer after it has driven its first nail ? I shall never repeat a con- 
versation, but an idea often. I shall use the same types when I like, but not com- 
monly the same stereotypes. A thought is often original, though you have ut- 
tered it a hundred times. It has come to you over a new route, by a new and 
express train of associations. 

Sometimes, but rarely, one may be caught making the same speech twice 
over, and yet be held blameless. Thus a certain lecturer, after performing in an 
inland city where dwells a littcratrice of note, was invited to meet her and others 
over the social teacup. She pleasantly referred to his many wanderings in his 
new occupation. "Yes," he replied, "I am like the huma, the bird that never 
lights, being always in the cars, as he is always on the wing." — Years elapsed. 
The lecturer visited the same place once more for the same purpose. Another 
social cup after the lecture, and a second meeting with the distinguished lady. 
"You are constantly going from place to place," she said. "Yes," he answered, 
T am like the huma," — and finished the sentence as before. 

What horrors, when it flashed over him that he had made this fine speech, 
word for word, twice over ! Yet it was not true, as the lady might perhaps have 
fairlv inferred, that he had embellished his conversation with the huma dailv dur- 



OLIVER WEXUELL HOLMES 327 

ing that whole interval of years ; on the contrary, he had never once thought of 
the odious fowl until the recurrence of precisely the same circumstances brought 
up precisely the same idea. He ought to have been proud of the accuracy of his 
mental adjustments. Given certain factors, and a sound brain should always 
evolve the same fixed product with the certainty of Babbage's calculating-ma- 
chine. 

What a satire, by the way, is that machine on the mere mathematician ! 

— a Frankenstein monster; a thing without brains and without heart, too stupid 
to make a blunder ; that turns out results like a corn-sheller, and never grows any 
wiser or better, though it grind a thousand bushels of them. 

I have an immense respect for a man of talents plus "the mathematics." 
But the calculating power alone should seem to be the least human of qualities, 
and to have the smallest amount of reason in it ; since a machine can be made to 
do the work of three or four calculators, and better than any one of them. Some- 
times I have been troubled that I had not a deeper intuitive apprehension of the 
relations of numbers. But the triumph of the ciphering hand-organ has consoled 
me. I always fancy I can hear the wheels clicking in a calculator's brain. The 
power of dealing with numbers is a kind of "detached-lever" arrangement, which 
may be put into a mighty poor watch. I suppose it is about as common as the 
power of moving the ears voluntarily, which is a moderately rare endowment. 

Little localized powers, and little narrow streaks of specialized knowl- 
edge, are things men are very apt to be conceited about. Nature is very wise ; 
but for this encouraging principle, how many small talents and little accomplish- 
ments would be neglected! Talk about conceit. as much as you like; it is to hu- 
man character what salt is to the ocean ; it keeps it sweet, and renders it endur- 
able. Say, rather, it is like the natural unguent of the sea-fowl's plumage, which 
enables him to shed the rain that falls on him and the wave in which he dips. 
When one has had all his conceit taken out of him, when he has lost all his illu- 
sions, his feathers will soon soak through, and he will fly no more. 

"So you admire conceited people, do you?" said the young lady who has 
come to the city to be finished off for — the duties of life. 

I am afraid you do not study logic at your school, my dear. It does not 
follow that I wish to be pickled in brine because I like a salt-water plunge at 
Nahant. I say that conceit is just as natural a thing to human minds as a center 
is to a circle. But little-minded people's thoughts move in such small circles 
that five minutes' conversation gives you an arc long enough to determine their 
whole curve. An arc in the movement of a large intellect does not sensibly differ 
from a straight line. Even if it have the third vowel as its center, it does not soon 
betray it. The highest thought that is, is the most seemingly impersonal ; it does 
not obviously imply any individual center. 



328 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Audacious self-esteem, with good ground for it, is always imposing. What 
resplendent beauty that must have been which could have authorized Phryne to 
"peel" in the way she did ! What fine speeches are those two 1 — "Non omnis 
nioriar," and "I have taken all knowledge to be my province." 

* :5; ^ * :!: :i: ^ 

Did I not say to you a little while ago that the universe swam in an ocean of 
similitudes and analogies? I will not quote Cowley or Burns or Wordsworth 
just now to show you what thoughts were suggested to them by the simplest 
natural objects, such as a flower or a leaf; but I will read you a few lines, if you 
do not object, suggested by looking at a section of one of those chambered shells 
to which is given the name of Pearly Nautilus. We need not trouble ourselves 
about the distinction between this and the Paper Nautilus, the Argonauta of the 
ancients. The name applied to both shows that each has long been compared to 
a ship, as you may see more fully in Webster's Dictionary, or the "Encyclopedia," 
to which he refers. If you will look into Roget's Bridgewater Treatise, you will 
find a figure of one of these shells, and a section of it. The last will show you the 
series of enlarging compartments successively dwelt in by the animal that inhabits 
the shell, which is built in a widening spiral. Can you find no lesson in this ? 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main ; 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings 
J And coral reefs lie bare, 

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl : 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 

Before thee lies revealed ; 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil : 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new ; 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

Stole with soft step its shining archway through ; 

Built up its idle door ; 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering Sea, 

Cast from her lap forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul ! 

As the swift seasons roll ; 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by Life's unresting sea !" 



329 





WASHINGTON IKMiNG 



330 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAX LITERATURE 331 



RIP VAN WINKLE 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

(Born at New York, April 3, 17S3; died at Sunnyside, near Tarry town, N. Y., Nov. 28, 1859) 

HOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Cat- 
skill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appa- 
lachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up 
to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every 
change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the 
day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these 
mountains ; and they are regarded by all the good wives far and near as perfect 
barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and 
purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky ; but sometimes, 
when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors 
about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light 
up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light 
smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, 
just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the 
nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by 
some of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, just about the be- 
ginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace !), 
and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few 
years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed win- 
dows, and gable fronts surrounded with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the pre- 
cise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, 
while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured 
fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Win- 
kles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and ac- 
companied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little 
of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, 
good-natured man. He was, moreover, a kind neighbor, an obedient, hen-pecked 
husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of 
spirit which gained him such universal popularity ; for those men are most apt to 
be obsequious and conciliating abroad who are under the discipline of shrews at 



332 BEST THINGS FROAI AMERICAN LITERATURE 

home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery 
furnace of domestic tribulation ; and a curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in 
the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant 
wife may therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and, if 
so. Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the vil- 
lage, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, 
and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gos- 
sipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, 
too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, 
made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them 
long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about 
the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clam- 
bering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ; and not 
a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds 
of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; 
for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, 
and fish all day, without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by 
a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours to- 
gether, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot 
a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor, 
even in the roughest toil ; and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husk- 
ing corn, or building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to em- 
ploy him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less-obliging 
husbands would not do for them. In a word. Rip was ready to attend to any- 
body's business but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in 
order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; it was the most 
pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country ; everything about it went 
wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling 
to pieces ; his cows would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds 
were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain always made 
a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do ; so that though his 
patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until 
there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it 
was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. 
His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the 
habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He was generally seen trooping like ? 



WASHINGTON IRVING 333 

colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, 
which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in 
bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well- 
oiled dispositions, who take the world easy ; eat white bread or brown, whichever 
can be got with least thought or trouble ; and would rather starve on a penny 
than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in 
perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his 
idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, 
noon and night her tongue was incessantly going ; and every thing he said or did 
vvas sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of 
replying to all lectures of the kind ; and that, by frequent use, had grown into a 
habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said 
nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife ; so that 
he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house, the only 
side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hen- 
pecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in 
idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's 
going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable 
dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods ; but what courage 
can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? 
The moment Wolf entered the house, his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, 
or curled between his legs ; he sneaked about with a gallows-air, casting many a 
sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle ; and, at the least flourish of a broomstick 
or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on. 
A tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool 
that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console him- 
self, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, 
philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on 
a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty 
George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long, lazy 
Summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money 
to have heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place when by chance 
an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveler. How solemn- 
ly they would listen to the contents as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the 
schoolmaster ! — a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the 



334 



BEST THINGS FROxM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate upon 
public events some months after they had taken place ! 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, 
a. patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn ; at the door of which he took 
his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and 
keep in the shade of a large tree : so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his 
movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to 
speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great 
man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his 
opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was ob- 
served to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and 
angry pufifs ; but, when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, 
and emit it in light and placid clouds ; and sometimes, taking the pipe from 
liis mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod 
his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his 
termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assem- 
blage, and call the members all to naught. Nor was that august personage, 
Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, 
who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his only alternative to 
escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife was to take gun in hand, 
and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the 
foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sym- 
pathized as a fellow-sufiferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf!" he would say; "thy 
mistress leads thee a dog's life of it. But never mind, my lad : whilst I live, thou 
shalt never want a friend to stand by thee." Wolf would wag his tail ; look wist- 
fully in his master's face ; and, if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he recipro- 
cated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine Autumnal day. Rip had unconsciously 
scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after 
his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting ; and the still solitudes had echoed with the 
reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, 
on a green knoll, covered with mountain-herbage, that crowned the brow of a 
precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower 
country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly 
Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the 
reflection of a purple cloud or the sail of a lagging bark here and there sleeping 
on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side, he looked down into a deep mountain-glen, wild, lonely, 



WASHINGTON IRVING 335 

and shagged ; the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and 
scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay 
musing on this scene. Evening was gradually advancing: the mountains began 
to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys. He saw that it would be dark 
long before he could reach the village ; and he heaved a heavy sigh when he 
thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance hallooing, "Rip 
\'an Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle !" He looked round, but could see nothing but 
a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy 
must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same 
cry ring through the still evening air, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" and 
at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and, giving a low growl, skulked to 
his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague 
apprehension stealing over him. He looked anxiously in the same direction, 
and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the 
weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human 
being in this lonely and unfrequented place ; but, supposing it to be some one of 
the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity of the 
stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick, bushv 
hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth 
jerkin strapped round the waist, several pairs of breeches (the outer one of ample 
volume), decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the 
knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor ; and made 
signs for Rip to approach, and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and 
distrustful of this new acquaintance. Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and, 
mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently 
the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then 
heard long, rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep 
ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path con- 
ducted. He paused for an instant ; but, supposing it to be the muttering of one 
of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, 
he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small 
amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which 
impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the 
azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time, Rip and his 
companion had labored on in silence ; for, though the former marveled greatly 
what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet 
there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that 
inspired awe and checked familiaritv. 



336 l*,I<:S'r THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. 
( )n a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at 
ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion : some wore short 
doublets ; others jerkins, with long knives in their belts ; and most of them had 
enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, 
were peculiar : one had a large beard, broad face, and small, priggish eyes ; the 
face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a 
white sugar-loaf hat, set ofT with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of 
various shapes and colors. There was a stout old gentleman, with a weather- 
beaten countenance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high- 
crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses on 
them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting 
in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been 
brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that, though these folks were 
evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most 
mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he 
had ever witnessed. Nothing had interrupted the stillness of the scene but the 
noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains 
like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from 
their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, 
luicouth, lack-luster countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his 
knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg 
into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait on the company. He obeyed 
with fear and trembling. They quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then 
returned to their game. 

By degrees. Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when 
no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of 
the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon 
tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another ; and he reiterated 
his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his 
eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen 
the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes. It was a bright, sunny morning. 
The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes ; and the eagle was 
wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip. 
T have not slept here, all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
asleep — the strange man with a keg of liquor, the mountain ravine, the wild re- 
treat among the rocks, the woe-begone party at ninepins, the flagon. "Oh, that 



WASHINGTON IRVING 337 

flagon ! that wicked flagon !" thought Rip. "What excuse shall I make to Dame 
Van Winkle ?" 

He looked round for his gun ; but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling- 
piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the 
lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave 
roisters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with 
liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared ; but he might 
have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and 
shouted his name ; but all in vain. The echoes repeated his whistle and shout ; but 
no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and, if he 
met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he 
found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. "These 
mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip ; " and, if this frolic should 
lay me up with a fit of rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van 
Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen. He found the gully 
up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening ; but, to his 
astonishment, a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock 
to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift 
to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sas- 
safras and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape- 
vines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of 
network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to 
the amphitheatre ; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks pre- 
sented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a 
sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows 
of the surrounding forest. Here," then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He 
again called and whistled after his dog. He was only answered by the cawing of 
a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny 
precipice, and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at 
the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done ? The morning was passing 
away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up 
his dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife : but it would not do to starve 
among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but none whom 
he knew ; which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted 
with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion 
from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks 



338 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

of surprise, and, whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their 
chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip involuntarily to do 
the same ; when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long. 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children 
ran at his heels, hooting after him as he passed. The very village was altered : 
it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never 
seen before ; and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. 
Strange names were over the doors, strange faces at the windows; everything 
was strange. His mind now misgave him : he began to doubt whether both he 
and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, 
which he had left but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains ; there 
ran the silver Hudson at a distance ; there was every hill and dale precisely as it 
had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That flagon last night," thought 
he, "has addled my poor head sadly." 

It was with some difficulty that he found his way to his own house, which 
he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of 
Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay, the roof fallen in, the 
windows shattered, and the doors ofif the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked 
like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name ; but the cur snarled, 
showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. "My very 
dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me !" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame Van Winkle had always 
kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This 
desolateness overcame all his connubial fears. He called loudly for his wife and 
children. The lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice ; and then all 
again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort — the village inn ; but 
it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great 
gaping windows (some of them broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats) ; 
and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." In- 
stead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, 
there now was reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that looked 
like a red nightcap ; and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular as- 
semblage of stars and stripes. All this was strange and incomprehensible. 
He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under v/hich 
he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but even this was singularly meta- 
morphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and hufi; a sword was 
held in the hand instead of a sceptre ; the head was decorated with a cocked hat ; 
and underneath was painted in large characters, "Gen. Washington." 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip reccl- 



WASHINGTON IRVING 339 

lected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, 
bustHng, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and 
drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his 
broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke in- 
stead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the con- 
tents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, 
with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citi- 
zens, elections, members of Congress, liberty. Bunker's Hill, heroes of seventy- 
six, and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered 
Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, 
his uncouth dress, and an armiy of women and children at his heels, soon attracted 
the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him 
from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, 
drawing him partly aside, inquired on which side he voted. Rip stared in vacant 
stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising 
on tiptoe, inquired whether he was Federal or Democrat. Rip was equally at a 
loss to comprehend the question ; when a knowing, self-important old gentle- 
man, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to 
the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van 
Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and 
sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone 
what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his 
heels ; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village. "Alas ! gentlemen," 
cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man ; a native of the place ; 
and a loyal subject to the king, God bless him !" 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "A Tory, a Tory, a spy, a 
refugee ! Hustle him ! Away with him !" It was with great difficulty that the 
self-important man in the cocked hat restored order ; and, having assumed a 
tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he came 
there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that 
he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors who 
used to keep about the tavern. 

"Well, who are they? Name them?" 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while ; when an old man replied in a thin, 
piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder ! Why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! 
There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him ; 
but that's rotten and gone, too." 

"Where's Brom Butcher?" 



340 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war. Some say he was 
killed at the storming of Stony Point ; others say he was drowned in a squall at 
the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know: he never came back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

"He went off to the wars, too; was a great militia general; and is now in 
Congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and 
friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, 
too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could 
not understand — war, Congress, Stony Point. He had no courage to ask after 
any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van 
Winkle?" 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three — "oh, to be sure! That's 
Rip \'an Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he went up the 
mountain ; apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was 
now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was 
himself, or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the 
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name. 

"God knows!" exclaimed he, at his wits' end. "I'm not myself: I'm some- 
body else. That's me yonder — no — that's somebody else got into my shoes. I 
was myself last night ; but I fell asleep on the mountain ; and they've changed my 
gun ; and everything's changed ; and I'm changed : and I can't tell what's my 
name, or who I am !" 

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, 
and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about 
securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief; at the very 
suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some 
precipitation. 

At this critical moment, a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng 
to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, 
which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip!" cried she — "hush, 
you little fool ! The old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air 
of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his 
mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name ?" 

"Ah, poor man ! Rip Van Winkle was his name ; but it's twenty years since 
he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since. His 



WASHINGTON IRVING 341 

dog came home without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away 
by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a faltering voice : 

"Where's your mother?" 

"Oh ! she, too, had died but a short time since. She broke a blood-vessel 
in a fit of passion at a New England pedler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man 
could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his 
arms. "I am your father!" cried he — "young Rip Van Winkle once, old Rip 
Van Winkle now ! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, 
put her hand to her brow, and, peering under it in his face for a moment, ex- 
claimed : 

"Sure enough! It is Rip Van Winkle! It is himself! Welcome home 
again, old neighbor! Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told ; for the whole twenty years had been to hi-m but 
as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it : some were seen to wink 
at each other and put their tongues in their cheeks ; and the self-important man 
in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, 
screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head ; upon which there 
was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, 
who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the his- 
torian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. 
Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the won- 
derful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, 
and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the 
company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor, the historian, that 
the Catskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings ; that it was 
affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and 
country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years with his crew of "The 
Half-Moon," being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, 
and to keep a guardian eye on the river and the great city called by his name; 
that his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins 
in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one summer after- 
noon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the 
more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live 
with her. She had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer 
for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb 



342 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

upon his neck. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen 
leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm, but evinced an 
hereditary disposition to attend to anything but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits. He soon found many of his 
former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and 
preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon 
grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that 
happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more 
on the bench at the inn-door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the 
village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some time 
before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to compre- 
hend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor — how that there 
had been a revolutionary war ; that the country had thrown ofi the yoke of Old 
England ; and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he 
was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the 
changes of States and Empires made but little impression on him. But there 
was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was 
petticoat government. Happily, that was at an end. He had got his neck out 
of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without 
dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, 
however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which 
might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliv- 
erance. 

^ He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's 
hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it ; 
which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled 
down precisely to the tale I have related ; and not a man, woman, or child in the 
neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality 
of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point 
on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, 
almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day, they never hear a thun- 
der-storm of a Summer afternoon about the Catskill, but they say Hendrick Hud- 
son and his crew are at their game of ninepins; and it is a common wish of aU 
henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, 
that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 343 



THANATOPSIS 

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

(Born at Cummington, Mass., November 3, 1794 ; died at New York, June 12, 1878^ 

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language ; for his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and of smiles 

And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 

Into his darker musings with a mild 

And healing sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 

Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart ; 

Go forth, under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 

Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist 

Thy image. Earth that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth to be resolved to earth again ; 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix forever with the elements — 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 




WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



344 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 345 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shah He down 

With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings, 

The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good. 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 

Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun, the vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between, 

The venerable woods, rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That make the meadows green ; and, pour'd round all^ 

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste — 

Are but the solemn decoration all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 

Of morning ; traverse Barca's desert sands. 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 

Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ; 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw 

In silence from the living, and no friend 

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 

His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long tram 

Of ages glides away, the sons of men — 

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 

In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man — 

Shall, one by one, be gather'd to thy side, 

By those who in their turn shall follow them. 



346 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

So live that, when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustain'd and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 





BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 347 

A ROMANCE OF THE CITY ROOM 

BY ELIZABETH G. JORDAN 

OR more than two years the letters and the red roses came with un- 
broken regularity. When at last a certain Friday evening arrived and 
they did not, Miss Bancroft stared at the top of her unvisited desk as 
if some perplexing phenomenon had taken place. She would have 
been scarcely less surprised at the failure of a physical law than by 
this lack of fidelity — she could not call it forgetfulness or indifference 
— on the part of Shadow. The face of the world seemed changed to her as she 
went home that night, and the sudden realization of what this meant made her 
heart contract. Perhaps he was only testing her, proving to her at last what a 
factor in her life he had come to be. But she rejected this thought at once ; she 
did not know his name or face, but she knew the man too well to think self-love 
could thus claim him, even for a moment. Perhaps all was not well with him. 
There had been a persistent minor note in his recent letters, bravely as he had 
tried to stifle it. Last week's roses, almost withered now, looked sadly up at her 
as she entered her apartment. She had kept the flowers, of late, until the next 
box came to replace them. To-night, as she watered the grateful roses, her im- 
agination saw in their droop and langour the mute symbol of the passing from her 
life of something of whose full sweetness she was just beginning to be conscious. 
The days went on, and brought no sign from the Shadow. They all seemed 
alike to the young reporter, who kept her sad reflections in her own heart and 
gave no outward sign. She felt her friend drifting from her, perhaps through a 
misapprehension which she had no power to correct. It was as much beyond 
her to reach or affect him as if he lived in truth in another world which he had 
shared with her, but from which she was now shut out. She missed his flowers, 
she missed his letters ; above all, she missed the sense of companionship and pro- 
tecting tenderness which had enveloped her so mysteriously and so long. 

She was recalling those things one cold night in February when she wearily 
entered her apartment. On the hearth, in her cozy study, a bright fire burned 
cheerily. The attentive maid had drawn up to it her favorite easy-chair and had 
placed her slippers near the warm glow. She sank into the chair with a sigh of 
satisfaction, brushing the snow from her jacket, and recklessly exposing the soles 
of her little boots to the heat as she settled her feet on the fender. The sudden 
blaze that had greeted her had died down, and the room was almost in shadow. 



348 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

As her eyes wandered listlessly over her books and pictures they fell on some- 
thing oddly familiar. Was that great vase on the table, which had held the 
Shadow's offering for so long, again full of fresh red roses? Miss Bancroft 
rubbed her eyes and looked more closely. Had she fallen asleep and was she 
dreaming of the roses that ' ?d filled it so constantly until three months ago? 
The perfume of the flowers seemed very real. They tvere there — "the beautiful 
darlings !" she whispered, as she went to them and laid her face against them. To 
her excited fancy they seemed to laugh up at her. "Here we are again," they 
said. ''It's all right — everything is unchanged ;" and the whole world was 
brighter for the assurance. She lit the gas hastily and rang the bell. There had 
been no letter with the flowers, the little maid told her. They had come without 
a card about four that afternoon, and she had taken them out of the box and put 
them in water, as she knew Mademoiselle would have wished. The box? But 
yes, here it is — a large and ornate affair, with the name of a famous florist on its 
cover in gold letters. This unusual feature surprised and temporarily disturbed 
Miss Bancroft. Never before had the Shadow sent her such a clue. Surely, if 
she wished, it would be comparatively easy to trace him now. She dismissed the 
idea from her mind for the present. He was still her friend, and all was well with 
him. He had sent her the roses to tell her so. That was enough. 

She dressed for dinner in high spirits, putting on her best gown in honor of 
this spiritual caller, and singing a favorite song which was in harmony with her 
mood. The little maid smiled to hear again the blithe notes that had been silent 
of late. 

"For the Spring, the Spring is coming, 

'T is good-by to ice and snow; 
Yes, I know it, for the swallows 

Have come back to tell me so," 

sang the soft contralto voice. Spring had already come in her heart — for the 
roses told her so. 

Herforth called on her after dinner, formally arrayed in his evening clothes, 
and with a startling chrysanthemum in his button-hole. His first words lowered 
Miss Bancroft's spirits : 

"Got the roses. I see," he said, nodding toward the blooming jacqueminots 
in the vase on the table. 

"Did — did you send them?" faltered the girl. She was conscious of a sink- 
ing sensation, as if something were falling away from her. 

"Only in a way," said Herforth at once. "I acted as an agent." He had 
dropped into an easy-chair, and as he spoke he regarded her rather curiously. 

"Do you remember Hatfeld?" he went on. "Awfully good-looking chap. 



ELIZABETH G. JORDAN 349 

with light hair and dark eyes. Reserved, but I found him one of the most charm- 
ing fellows I ever met when I came to know him. Nobody on the paper knew 
him well except me. Wasn't at the office much except at night, and then did his 
work in a little room off the night editor's sanctum. I liked him and dined with 
him a lot, and he used to let me talk about you most of the time. Well, he was 
consumptive, poor fellow. Didn't tell me anything about it until three months 
ago, when he went to Algiers for his health. The night before he sailed we dined 
together, and went afterwards to my room to smoke. Am I boring you ?" 

"Go on, please," said Miss Bancroft, in a low tone. 

She was standing at the window looking out at the snow, which was falling 
heavily. The sudden question evidently startled her, for she shivered as she 
turned toward the young man and then glanced away again. 

"We talked a good deal," continued Herforth, animatedly, "and I tried to 
brace him up as well as I could. Prophesied that he'd come back in six months 
perfectly well, and all that sort of thing. It had no effect on him, but he was aw- 
fully cool and plucky about his condition. He told me that his father and mother 
had both died of consumption, and that the doctors had given him no hope. He 
said that was why he had never married. He would not make the woman he 
loved wretched and hand down a legacy of physical ill to his children. And then 
he said something that will interest you." 

Herforth had been speaking rather lightly, but if she had noticed it Miss 
Bancroft would have known that beneath the careless tone lay a warm sympathy 
for his friend. She did not notice it. She was thinking of Herforth just then. 
His few words had brought before her very vividly the farewell scene he was de- 
scribing. She saw the two men together, and while the face of one was hidden 
from her she could see in his attitude the despair against which he had so bravely 
fought. She left the window and sat down in a low chair, her face a little in the 
shadow. Herforth went on slowly and more seriously : 

"Just before we parted, Hatfeld turned to me and said: 'I'm going to have 
them cable you when it's all over, old man ; not that I want to depress you, but 
because I want you to do something for me. Don't ask me why or anything 
about it. But when you receive that cablegram, I want you to send a box of red 
roses to Miss Bancroft.' " 

Herforth paused a moment and poked the fire with creditable considerate- 
ness. His voice had become a trifle unsteady. Though he could not have 
analyzed it, for he knew they had never met, there was something in Miss Ban- 
croft's manner as she listened which moved him strangely. She looked at him 
and opened her lips, but closed them again without speaking. The expression 
in her beautiful eyes made Herforth turn his own away. 

"I got the cablegram this morning," he said, softly. 




ABRAHAM LINCOLN 



350 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 351 




LINCOLN'S SPEECH AT GETTYSBURG 

SAID TO BE ONE OF THE MOST PERFECT SPECIMENS OF FORENSIC ELOQUENCE IN ANY 

I^ANGUAGE 

(Born in Hardin County, Ky., February 12, 1809 ; died at Washington, D. C, April 15, 1865) 

"^T^ OURSCORE and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this 

continent a new nation, conceived in hberty and dedicated to the 

proposition that all men are created equal. 

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that 

nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated can long endure. 

We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to 
dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here 
gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper 
that we should do this. 

But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot 
hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have 
consecrated far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little 
note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they 
did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished 
work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather 
for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us : that from these 
honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave th© 
last full measure of devotion ; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall 
not have died in vain ; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of free- 
dom ; and that gov-ernment of the people, by the people, and for the people shall 
not perish from this earth. 




Copyrigbt, 1697, by Hulliiigei< & Rockey, fieta York 

RICHARD WATSON GILDER 



352 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 353 



ODE 

BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER 

(Born at Bordentown, N. J., February 8, 1844) 

I. 

I am the spirit of the morning sea ; 
I am the awakening and the glad surprise ; 
I fill the skies 

With laughter and with light. 
Not tears, but jollity, 

At birth of day brim the strong man-child's eyes. 
Behold the white 

Wide threefold beams thai from the hidden sun 
Rise swift and far — 
One where Orion keeps 
His armed watch, and one 
That to the midmost starry heaven upleaps ; 
The third blots out the firm-fixed Northern Star. 

I am the wind that shakes the glittering wave, 
Hurries the snowy spume along the shore, 
And dies at last in some far, murmuring cave. 
My voice thou hearest in the breaker's roar — 
That sound which never failed since time began, 
And first around the world the shining tumult ran. 

XL 

I light the sea and wake the sleeping land. 
My footsteps on the hills make music, and my hand 
Plays like a harper's on the wind-swept pines. 

With the wind and the day 
I follow round the world — away ! away ! 
Wide over lake and plain my sunlight shines, 
And every wave and every blade of grass 
Doth know me as I pass ; 

Reprinted by permission of The Century Co., Publishers, New York. 



354 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

And nie the western sloping mountains know, and me 
The far-off, golden sea. 

Oh sea, whereon the passing sun dotli lie ! 
O man, who watchest by that golden sea ! 
Grieve not, oh, grieve not thou, but lift thine eye 
And see me glorious in the sunset sky ! 

III. 

I love not the night, 
Save when the stars arc bright. 
Or when the moon 

Fills the white air with silence like a tune. 
Yea, even the night is mine 
When the Northern Lights outshine. 
And all the wild heavens throb in ecstasy divine — 
Yea, mine deep midnight, though the black sky lowers, 
When the sea burns white and breaks on the shore in 
starry showers. 

IV. 

I am the laughter of the new-born child 
On whose soft-breathing sleep an angel smiled. 
And I all sweet first things that are : 
First songs of birds, not perfect as at last — 
Broken and incomplete — 
But sweet, oh, sweet! 
And I the first faint glimmer of a star 
To the wrecked ship that tells the storm is past ; 
The first keen smells and stirrings of the Spring ; 
First snowflakes, and first May-flowers after snow ; 
The silver glow 

Of the new moon's ethereal ring ; 
The song the morning stars together made. 
And the first kiss of lovers under the first June shade. 



My sword is quick, my arm is strong to smite 
In the dread joy and fury of the fight. 
I am with those who win, not those who flv ; 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER 

With those who hve I am, not those who die. 

Who die? Nay, nay, that word 

Where I am is unheard ; 

For I am the spirit of youth that cannot change, 

Nor cease, nor suffer woe ; 

And I am the spirit of beauty that doth range 

Through natural forms and motions, and each show 

Of outward loveHness. With me have birth 

All gentleness and joy in all the earth. 

Raphael knew me, and showed the world my face ; 

Me Homer knew, and all the singing race — 

For I am the spirit of light and life and mirth. 



355 






ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS 



356 



BEvST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE" 



357 



A GLIMPSE 



l-KOM "Till-; C-,AT]<;S AJAR 




BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS 

(Born at Andover, Mass., August 13, 1844) 

i^ SAW as funny and as pretty a bit of drama this afternoon as I have seen 
for a long time. 



Faith had been rolHng out in the hot hay ever since three o'clock, 
with one of the little Elands, and when the shadows grew long they 
came in with flushed cheeks and tumbled hair, to rest and cool upon the 
door-steps. I was sitting in the parlor, sewing energetically on some 
sunbonnets for some of Aunt Winifred's people down-town — I found the heat to 
be more bearable if I .kept busy — and could see, unseen, all the little tableaux 
into which the two children grouped themselves ; a new one every instant — in the 
shadow now, now in a quiver of golden glow, the wind tossing their hair about, 
and their chatter chiming down the hall like bells. 

"Oh, what a funny little sunset there's going to be behind the maple-tree," 
said the blond-haired Bland, in a pause. 

"Funny enough," observed Faith, with her superior smile, "but it's going to 
be a great deal funnier up in heaven, I tell you, Molly Bland." 

"Funny in heaven? Why, Faith!" Molly drew herself up with a religious 
air, and looked the image of her father. 

"Yes, to be sure. I'm going to have some little pink blocks made out of it 
when I go ; pink and yellow and green and purple and — oh, so many blocks ! I'm 
going to have a little red cloud to sail round in, like that one up over the house, 
too, I shouldn't wonder." 

Molly opened her eyes. "Oh, I don't believe it." 

"You don't know much !" said Miss Faith, superbly. "I shouldn't s'pose 
you would believe it. P'r'aps I'll have some strawberries, too, and some ginger- 
snaps — I'm not going to have any old bread and butter up there — oh, and some 
little gold apples, and a lot of playthings — nice playthings — why, nicer than they 
have in the shops in Boston, Molly Bland ! God's keeping 'em up there a pur- 
po.se." 

"Dear me !" said incredulous Molly, "I should just like to know who told you 
chat much. My mother never told it at me. Did your mother tell it at you ?" 

"Oh, she told me some of it, and the rest I finked out mvself." 



358 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Let's go and play One Old Cat," said Molly, with an uncomfortable jump ; 
"I wish I hadn't got to go to heaven !" 

"Why, Molly Bland ! Why, I fink heaven's splendid ! I've got my papa 
up there, you know. 'Here's my little girl !' that's what he's going to say. 
Mamma, she'll be there, too, and we're all going to live in the prettiest house. 
I have dreadful hurries to go this afternoon sometimes when Phoebe's cross and 
won't give me sugars. They don't let you in, though, 'nless you're a good girl." 

"Who gets it all up?" asked puzzled Molly. 

"Jesus Christ will give me all these beautiful fings," said Faith, evidently 
repeating her mother's words — the only catechism that she has been taught. 

"And w^hat will He do when He sees you?" asked her mother, coming down 
the stairs and stepping up behind her. 

"Take me up in His arms and kiss me." 

"And what will Faith say?" 

"Fank^you !" said the child, softly. 

In another moment she was absorbed, body and soul, in the mysteries of 
One Old Cat. 

"But I don't think she will feel much like being naughty for half an hour to 
come," her mother said; "hear how pleasantly her words drop! Such a talk 
quiets her, like a hand laid on her head. Mary, sometimes I think it is His very 
hand, as much as when He touched those other little children. I wish Faith 
to feel at home with Him and His home. Little thing ! I really do not think 
that she is conscious of any fear of dying ; I do not think it means anything to 
her but Christ, and her father, and pink blocks, and a nice time, and never dis- 
obeying me or being cross. Many a time she wakes me up in the morning talk- 
ing away to herself, and when I turn and look at her, she says : 'Oh, mamma, 
won't we go to heaven to-day, you fink ? When will we go, mamma ?' " 

"If there had been any pink blocks and ginger-snaps for me when I was 
at her age, I should not have prayed every night to 'die out.' I think the hor- 
rors of death that children live through, unguessed and unrelieved, are awful. 
Faith may thank you all her life that she has escaped them." 

"I should feel answerable to God for the child's soul if I had not prevented 
that. I always wanted to know what sort of mother that poor little thing had who 
asked, if she were z'C7'y good up in heaven whether they wouldn't let her go dov/n 
to hell Saturday afternoons and play a little while !" 

"I know. But think of it — blocks and ginger-snaps!" 

"I treat Faith just as the Bible treats us, by dealing in pictures of truth that 
she can understand. I can make Clo and Abinadab Quirk comprehend that their 
pianos and machinery may not be made of literal rosewood and steel, but will 
be some synonym of the same thing, which will answer just such wants of their 



ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS 359 

changed natures as rosewood and steel must answer now. There will be ma- 
chinery and pianos in the same sense in which there will be pearl gates and harps. 
Whatever enjoyment any or all of them represent now, something will repre- 
sent then. 

"But Faith, if I told her that her heavenly ginger-snaps would not be made 
of molasses and flour, would have a cry, for fear that she was not going to have 
any ginger-snaps at all ; so, until she is older, I give her unqualified ginger-snaps. 
The principal joy of a child's life consists in eating. Faith begins, as soon as the 
light wanes, to dream of that gum-drop which she is to have at bed-time. I don't 
suppose she can outgrow that at once by passing out of her little round body. 
She must begin where she left off — nothing but a baby, though it will be as holy 
and happy a baby as Christ can make it. When she says, 'Mamma, I shall be 
hungry and want my dinner up there,' I never hesitate to tell her that she shall 
have her dinner. She would never, in her secret heart — though she might not 
have the honesty to say so — expect to be otherwise than miserable in a dinnerless 
eternity." 

"You are not afraid of misleading the child's fancy?" 

"Not as long as I can keep the two ideas — that Christ is her best friend, 
and that heaven is not meant for naughty girls — pre-eminent in her mind. And 
I sincerely believe that He would give her the very pink blocks which she antici- 
pates, no less than He would give back a poet his lost dreams, or you your 
brother. He has been a child ; perhaps, incidentally, to the unsolved mysteries of 
atonement, for this very reason, that he may know how to 'prepare their places' 
for them, whose angels do always behold His Father. Ah, you may be sure 
that, if of such is the happy Kingdom, He will not scorn to stoop and fit it to 
their little needs. 

"There was that poor little fellow whose guinea-pig died — do you remem- 
ber?" 

"Only half; what was it?" 

" 'Oh, mamma,' he sobbed out, behind his handkerchief, 'don't great big 
elephants have souls?' 

" 'No, my son.' 

" 'Nor camels, mamma?' 

" 'No.' 

" 'Nor bears, nor alligators, nor chickens?' 

" 'Oh, no, dear.' 

"'Oh, mamma, mamma! Don't little clean, white guinea-pigs have souls?' 

"I never should have had the heart to say no to that, especially as we have 
no positive proof to the contrary. 

"Then that scrap of a boy who lost his little red balloon the morning he 



36o BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

bought it, and, broken-hearted, wanted to know whether it liad gone to heaven. 
Don't I suppose if he had been taken there himself that very minute, that he 
would have found a little balloon in waiting for him? How can I help it?" 

"It has a pretty sound. If people would not think it so material and shock- 
ing " 

"Let people read Martin Luther's letters to his little boy. There is the 
testimony of a pillar in good and regular standing! I don't think you need be 
afraid of my balloon after that." 

I remembered that there was a letter of his on heaven, but, not recalling it 
distinctly. I hunted for it to-night, and read it over. I shall copy it, the better 
to retain it in mind. 

"Grace and peace in Christ, my dear little son. I see with pleasure that 
thou learnest well, and prayed diligently. Do so, my son, and continue. When 
I come home I will bring thee a pretty fairing. 

"I know a pretty, merry garden wherein are many children. They have 
little golden coats, and they gather beautiful apples under the trees, and pears, 
cherries, plums, and wheat-plums ; they sing, and jump, and are merry. They 
have beautiful little horses, too, with gold bits and silver saddles. And I asked 
the man to whom the garden belongs, whose children they were. And he said : 
'They are the children that love to pray and to learn, and are good.' Then said 
I : 'Dear man, I have a son, too; his name is Johnny Luther. May he not also 
come into this garden and eat these beautiful apples and pears, and ride these 
fine horses?' Then the man said : 'If he loves to pray and to learn, and is good, 
he shall come into this garden, and Lippus and Jost, too ; and when they all come 
together, they shall have fifes and trumpets, lutes and all sorts of music, and they 
shall dance, and shoot with little cross-bows.' 

'And he showed me a fine meadow there in the garden, made for dancing. 
There hung nothing but golden fifes, trumpets, and fine silver cross-bows. But 
it was early, and the children had not yet eaten ; therefore I could not wait the 
dance, and I said to the man : 'Ah, dear sir ! I will immediately go and write all 
this to my little son Johnny, and tell him to pray diligently, and to learn well, and 
to be good, so that he also may come to this garden. But he has an Aunt 
Lehne ; he must bring her with him.' Then the man said : 'It shall be so ; go and 
write him so.' 

"Therefore, my dear little son Johnny, learn and pray away! and tell Lip- 
pus and Jost, too, that they must learn and pray. And then you shall come to the 
garden together. Herewith I commend thee to Almighty God. And greet Aunt 
Lehne, and give her a kiss for my sake. 

"Thy dear father, 

"Anno 1530." "iMartinus Luther." 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



361 



THE ANSWER OF THE SEA 

BY JOHN LANODON HEATON 

(Born at Canton, N. Y., January 29, i860) 

One (lay I saw a ship upon the sands 

Careened tipon beam-ends, her tilted deck 
Swept clear of rubbish of a long-past wreck, 

Her colors struck, but not by human hands ; 

Her masts the driftwood of what distant strands ! 
■ Her frowning ports where, at the Admiral's beck, 
Grim, scowling cannon held the foe in check, 

Gaped for the frolic of the minnow bands. 

The seaweed banners in her fo'c's'le waved ; 
A turtle basked upon her capstan head ; 

Her cabin's pomp the clownish sculpin braved. 
And on her prow, where the lost figure-head 

Once scorned the brink, a name forgot was graved- 
It was "The Irresistible" I read ! 





JOHN LANGDON HEATON 



36? 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 365 



JUDGES 

BEING AN EXTRACT FROM A MOST EI^OQUENT ADDRESS IN THE UNITED STATES SENATE 

BY CHARLES SUMNER 

(Born at Boston, Mass., January 6, iSii; died at Washington, D. C, March ii, 1874) 

ET me here say that I hold Judges, and especially the Supreme Court of 
the country, in much respect ; but I am too familiar with the history of 
judicial proceedings to regard them with any superstitious reverence. 
Judges are but men, and in all ages have shown a full share of frailty. 
Alas ! alas ! the worst crimes of history have been perpetrated under their 
sanction. The blood of martyrs and of patriots, crying from the ground, 
summons them to judgment. 

It was a judicial tribunal which condemned Socrates to drink the fatal hem- 
lock, and which pushed the Saviour barefoot over the pavements of Jerusalem, 
bending beneath his cross. It was a judicial tribunal which, against the testi- 
mony and entreaties of her father, surrendered the fair Virginia as a slave ; which 
arrested the teachings of the apostle to the Gentiles, and sent him in bonds from 
Judea to Rome ; which in the name of old religion, adjudged the saints and fath- 
ers of the Christian Church to death, in all its most dreadful forms ; and which 
afterwards in the name of the new religion, enforced the tortures of the Inquisi- 
tion, amidst the shrieks and agonies of its victims ; while it compelled Galileo to 
declare, in solemn denial of the great truth he had disclosed, that the earth did 
not move round the sun. 

Ay, sir, it was a judicial tribunal in England, surrounded 

by all the forms of law, which sanctioned every despotic caprice of Henry the 
Eighth, from the unjust divorce of his queen to the beheading of Sir Thomas 
More ; which lighted the fires of persecution, that glowed at Oxford and Smith- 
field, over the cinders of Latimer, Ridley, and John Rodgers ; which, after 
elaborate argument, upheld the fatal tyranny of ship money against the patriotic 
resistance of Hampden . . . which persistently enforced the laws of con- 
formity that our Puritan fathers persistently refused to obey ; and which after- 
wards, with Jeffries on the bench, crimsoned the pages of English history with 
massacre and murder, even with the blood of innocent women. Ay, sir, and it 
was a judicial tribunal in our country, surrounded by all the forms of law, which 
hung witches at Salem, which affirmed the constitutionality of the Stamp Act, 
while it admonished "jurors and the people" to obey ; and which now, in our 
day, has lent its sanction to the unutterable atrocity of the Fugitive Slave Law. 




CHARLES SUMNER 



364 



BEST THINGS FROM AAIERICAN LITERATURE 365 



A LEGEND OF SONORA 

BY HILDEGARDE HAWTHORNE 

(Daughter of Julian and granddaughter of Nathaniel Hawthorne) 

*WO persons, a man and a woman, faced each other under a ckimp of live 
oaks. Hard by were visible the walls of an adobe house crumbling 
with age. The sun was setting ; a slight breeze stirred in the dark 
branches of the trees, which all through the hot Mexican day had been 
motionless. The woman was dark and small, with large eyes and a 
graceful body ; the man, a swarthy vaquero, in serape and sombrero. 

"And you heard him say — that ?" said she. 

"Yes, senorita. He said 'I love you! I love you!' twice, like that. And 
then he kissed her." 

"Ah ! he kissed her. Anything else ?" 

"This !" He handed her a shp of folded paper. It contained a woman's 
name, a few words of passion and a signature. As the senorita's eyes perused it, 
they contracted and she drew a long breath. The vaquero watched her keenly. 
"I found it in the arbor after they had gone," said he. 

She looked away dreamily. "Thank you, thank you, Mazeppa," she mut- 
tered. "It is late. I must go in now. Adois, Mazeppa." She turned and, 
moving slowly, vanished behind a corner of the adobe house. 

The vaquero remained motionless until she was out of sight. Then he 
pressed his hands to his lips, and flung them out toward her with a passionate 
gesture. The next moment he had mounted his horse and was gone. 

An hour passed. Again the sound of hoofs. A handsome young senor, 
jauntily attired, galloped up to the door of the house, and springing from the 
saddle, hitched his rein over a large hook projecting from the wall. "Hola! 
Maria, little one !" he called out, in a rich, joyous voice. "Where is my little 
Maria?" 

The senorita appeared, smiling. She was in white, with a reboso drawn 
around her delicate face. She bore a two-handled silver cup, curiously chased. 
"See," she said, "I have brought you some wine. Such a long ride, just to see 
me !" She was holding out the cup toward him ; but, as he was about to receive 
it, she drew it back suddenly. She was pale ; her eyes glittered. "I, too, am 
thirsty," she said. She lifted the cup to her lips and took a deep draught. "Now 
you shall finish it," she added, handing it to him. 

From Harper's Magazine. Copyright, 1891, by Harper & Brothers. All rights reser^-ed. 




HILDEGARDE HAWTHORNE 



366 



HILDEGARDE HAWTHORNE 



367 



He nodded to her laughingly. "To our love !" he said, and drained it. "But 
how strangely you look at me, little one !"' he exclaimed, as he set the cup down 
and caught his breath. "Is anything wrong?" 

"All is well," she answered. "I am happy. Are you happy?" 

"I ? I am with you, am I not?" 

She put her hand in his. "Let us never be parted any more," she said. 
"Come ; we'll walk to the hilltop and see the moon rise." 

Hand in hand, they sauntered along the path up the bare hillside. On and 
on they walked, slowly, slowly. Maria gave a little gasp, and glanced with dilated 
eyes at her lover. He smiled faintly, and tried to draw her toward him, but, 
somehow, did not ; and still they moved slowly on their way. The hilltop 
seemed strangely far ofi. Maria pressed forward, grasping her lover's hand. 
What made the distance seem so long ? Surely it was but a stroll of ten minutes ; 
yet it was as though they had been walking an hour — a year — many years ! 

Down the hillside path came a horseman, riding quietly and humming a 
love-song. He was close upon the two figures before he appeared to be aware 
of them. They half stopped, as if to speak to him. The horse shivered and 
plunged. The rider stared at the couple but an instant, then, driving home his 
spurs, he sprang past them. 

"Mother of God !" he faltered, crossing himself as he threw a backward 
glance up the path, on which nothing was now visible "the ghosts ! The little 
girl who, they say down below, poisoned herself and her lover fifty years ago !" 





MARY E. WILKINS 



^,68 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 369 



EUNICE AND THE DOLL 

BY MARY E. WILKINS 

(Born at Randolph, Mass., 1862) 

PART I. 
IXTY years ago there were twelve hundred inhabitants and over in the 
village, but there was'only one doll. She was a member of the doctor's 
family, being the property of his daughter Caroline, and spent most 
of her time in the top of the great mahogany chest in the spare 
chamber, because she was too handsome and too costly to be played 
with every day. 
When I say there was only one doll in the village, I mean only one 
boughten doll, or store doll. There were plenty of common, home-made dolls, 
manufactured from linen rags, and even from corncobs, but there was only one 
painted, wax, real-haired doll, made, no one knew how or where, by some cun- 
ning workman with marvelous means at his command. 

She was as much a real doll as flesh-and-blood baby was a real baby. 
The mystery of existence was hers. If the truth had been told, many a little girl 
scarcely believed that if the Doll's beautiful kid body were wounded, it would 
bleed cotton wool, like that of her own doll. Eunice was especially skeptical. 

Once, when she had the pleasure of taking tea with Caroline Tucker, the 
owner of the Doll, she questioned her. 

"What do you suppose she's made of inside?" she asked, timidly. Eunice 
was rather shy of Caroline Tucker, who was a year older than she, had a silk dress, 
was the doctor's daughter, and owned the Doll. 

"Oh, I don't know ; cotton wool, perhaps," replied Caroline Tucker. She 
spoke quite carelessly. Long possession had cheapened for her the wonder 
and charm of the Doll. Eunice shook her head doubtfully. 
"What do you suppose it is, then ?" asked Caroline Tucker. 
"When I held her once I thought I felt something like bones," said Eunice 
in a whisper. 
I There were three other girls at the tea-party. They all shivered and stared 
%t the Doll. Caroline Tucker laughed, and tossed back her curls with a grown- 
up and superior air, which was usual with her. 

"Oh, I have felt it. too," said she. "Mother says she thinks the Doll is 
made of wooden framework. That's all, Eunice Field." 

Copyright, 1896, by the Bacheller Syndicate. 



370 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The five little girls, the four guests and Caroline Tucker, sat in the best 
parlor, and the Doll with them in a little haircloth rocking-chair of her own. 

The Doll was arrayed in her company frock of spangled pink tarlatan, cut 
low in the neck. Her whole array might have been considered of somewhat too 
festive a character for an afternoon tea-party, being better adapted to a ball, or 
even a circus, but the girls considered it eminently proper. They themselves wore 
low-necked and short-sleeved dresses, though the material was delaine or cambric, 
instead of tarlatan. 

They had come to the party at half-past one o'clock, and brought their work. 
Each was making a black silk apron for herself, embroidering it with a wreath 
of red roses with green leaves across the top of the hem. Embroidered black 
silk aprons were very fashionable at that time, and the little girls were very much 
interested in theirs. They were all presents from Caroline's mother. She had 
given her daughter and each of her daughter's particular friends, black silk 
enough for an apron, and had herself drawn the rose pattern on tissue paper. 
The tea-party was given partly for the purpose of furthering work on the aprons. 
Caroline was not very swift nor skillful with her needle, and her mother 
thought that this might stimulate her to improvement. 

Caroline Tucker had a very placid and contented disposition ; all her life she 
had heard about this other little girl who had knitted a whole stocking before she 
was near her age, and that other little girl who had pieced a whole bed-quilt, with- 
out being in the least disturbed by her own remissness in those particulars. 
However, now she really wanted the black silk apron ; it wa,s much more inter- 
esting than a stocking or a bed-quilt, and she worked quite industriously. 

Eunice thought Caroline's mother was beautiful. Her admiration was di- 
vided between Mrs. Tucker and the Doll. 

The five girls embroidered industriously, and the Doll sat still and stared 
past them all with her unwinking blue eyes and smiled sweetly at nobody, 
though none of them knew that. Each thought that one of the others must 
catch that bright blue glance and sweet pink smile, if she did not. 

At four o'clock Caroline's mother came in again and bade them all fold 
their work away nicely, then put on their hats and run out in the garden for an 
hour before tea. Just then Caroline's brother Peter came in. He was much older 
than Caroline, a grown-up young man in Harvard College. This was his vaca- 
tion time. When he entered the little girls courtesied, and he greeted them 
\vith a gay friendliness which was very engaging. Peter Tucker was a hand- 
some young man, with brown hair curling over a high, white forehead, red 
cheeks, and eyes as blue as the Doll's. 

He walked straight up to the Doll, in her little chair, and stood looking 



MARY E. WILKINS 371 

down at her. Eunice was of the firm opinion that she was then staring and 
smiUng at him. 

"Well," said Mr. Peter Tucker, with a deep sigh, "I am thankful that this 
poor Doll-baby isn't crying now, as she cried all last night in that awful chest 
in the spare chamJDer where she is kept shut up." 

"Oh, Peter!" said his mother, remonstratingly. 

The guests nudged one another. They did not know wdiether to laugh or 
sigh with him ; Mr. Peter was so very serious. Caroline tossed back her curls. 

"Brother Peter is always talking that way," said she. 

"Now, Sister Caroline," returned j\Ir. Peter Tucker, and he looked almost 
as if he were going to weep, the corners of his mouth were so drawn down, "you 
know there isn't one night, and you know there are not many days, when this 
poor precious Doll-baby is shut up in the chest that she doesn't cry and cry and 
sob enough to break your heart, and say over and over that she's afraid of the 
dark and mice in there, and beg to be let out." 

Mr. Peter imitated the Doll's voice with a lamentable little squeak, and 
it did seem as if he would presently break into sobs. Caroline tossed back her 
curls again. 

"He always talks that way," said she, and the guests laughed knowingly — 
all except Eunice Field. She looked soberly into Mr. Peter's face, and her fore- 
head between her smooth scallops of black hair was knitted in a troubled frown. 

Mr. Peter looked straight at her when he spoke again. "And that is not all," 
he said, solemnly. "That Doll has been known to move around in that chest." 

"He's telling fibs," declared Caroline Tucker, but a shiver crept over the 
others, and Eunice turned quite pale. 

"Such kickings and thumpings against the lid, which it is no use to say are 
due to rats and mice," Mr. Peter went on impressively ; "and when it is raised 
that poor Doll-baby, lying all twisted up on her stomach, all worn out with 
her struggles. If you don't believe it, look at the toes of her shoes. How do 
you suppose the morocco got so worn unless she kicked the chest to get out? 
Dolls don't walk, do they?" 

Mr. Peter pointed triumphantly at the Doll's little pink morocco toes, which 
were undoubtedly rubbed, and the little girls eyed them curiously. 

"If we don't go out now we shan't have any time in the garden before tea," 
declared Caroline Tucker, though not impatiently. She was very fond and 
proud of her big brother, though she was conscious of an entire superiority to his 
teasing. She and her guests all flocked out, but Eunice turned for one more wist- 
ful look at Mr. Peter, and he nodded at her with intense meaning. 

There was a beautiful old garden with an arbor in it behind Doctor Tucker's 



3/2 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

house. The girls strolled up and down the box-bordered path, picked some 
gooseberries, and finally began to play hide-and-seek. 

Caroline was "it," and Eunice was hunting for her near the garden gate 
when she heard her name called. "Eunice," some one said softly ; "Eunice." 

She looked, and there stood Mr. Peter, with a roguish and ingratiating smile 
on his masculine face. He raised a finger and beckoned her toward the house. 
"Come in a minute," he whispered. "I've got something to show you." 

Eunice looked at him shyly and doubtfully. "Come," said Mr. Peter; "you 
can play hide-and-seek any time, and you don't know what I've got to show 
you." 

Mr. Peter motioned so beseechingly toward the house that Eunice yielded 
and followed him in. 

Mr. Peter led the way into the parlor, and Eunice noticed the minute she 
entered that something about the room was changed. A large high-backed 
chair had been drawn forward, and a screen which had stood before the fireplace 
had been moved to a position at right-angles with it. Between the screen and 
high-backed chair sat the Doll in her old place. 

Eunice looked at her, and noted the fluffy spread of her pink tarlatan skirts, 
the mild stare of her blue eyes, and her sweet, set smile. Mr. Peter stopped and 
pointed at the Doll, with one of his commiserating sighs. "Looks quite cheerful 
now, doesn't she?" said he. 

"Yes, sir," replied Eunice. 

"That pink dress is pretty, isn't it?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"And she has a pretty smile, though she might smile a little more and look 
happier?" 

"Yes, sir." 

]\Ir. Peter sighed again and motioned Eunice into the square room at the 
right of the chimney. There was a window in it, and the shutters were open. 
They were the only shutters which were open in the room ; all the others had been 
closed during Eunice's absence. 

Mr. Peter pushed Eunice gently forward, close to the window. From that 
place she could not have seen the Doll, even if she had not been concealed by the 
screen. 

"Now," said IMr. Peter, mysteriously, "you see that tree?" 

"Yes, sir," replied Eunice. She could not well avoid seeing the tree, since 
it was a tall elm only a few yards from the window. "Well," said Mr. Peter, "now 
you look straight up in the top of the tree, a little toward the right — see any- 
thing?" 

Eunice looked very hard, but she saw nothing except the green network of 



MARY E. WILKINS 373 

elm leaves. "No, sir," she replied, doubtingly, and then she jumped and was 
turning around, for she thought she heard a soft rustle and stir in front of the 
fireplace where the Doll sat, Init Mr. Peter laid a gentle, detaining hand on her 
shoulder. "Look sharp," said he ; "you don't look far enough to the left. 
See anything?" 

"No, sir," replied Eunice. She began to feel quite stupid and guilty. 

"Something that shines," said Mr. Peter. "See it?" 

Eunice shook her head. 

"It is odd you don't see it," said Mr. Peter. "Try again." 

Eunice looked and looked. She thought again tliat she heard a slight rustle 
in the vicinity of the Doll, but she did not turn her head. She stared up into the 
green maze of the elm, and Mr. Peter waited. 

"See it now?" he inquired, finally, but before Eunice could reply he cried 
out, "Well. I declare, that Doll has changed her dress !" 

Eunice turned, and her eyes followed Mr. Peter's pointing finger. There sat 
the Doll, but instead of her pink tarlatan frock, she wore one of white muslin. 
That was not all. The Doll was smiling a smile fully one-quarter of an inch 
wider than before. She seemed to be actually laughing. 

"Only see her smile. She is pleased because she has changed her dress her- 
self," said Mr. Peter. 

Eunice drew a long breath and looked at the Doll. 

PART II. 

Eunice never quite knew what happened next, what she said and did, nor 
what Mr. Peter said. The first that she could remember, after seeing the 
Doll dressed in that other frock and smiling that wider smile, was being walked 
up and down the south yard by Mr. Peter, and his voice in her ears, telling her 
about the mysterious object in the top of the elm tree. 

"It is the hoodoo's nest, at least that's what I suspect it is," said Mr. Peter. 
"Did you ever hear of a hoodoo?" 

"No, sir," replied Eunice, faintly. 

Mr. Peter, as he talked, kept a sharp watch to see if Eunice's black eyes 
were losing their bewildered stare, and her mouth its helpless, breathless ex- 
pression. 

If the Doll had startled Eunice, Eunice had rather startled Mr. Peter. He 
talked very fast about the hoodoo's nest. "Well, you see, Eunice, a hoodoo is a 
very vain bird," said he. "I doubt if the oldest person in this town ever saw a 
hoodoo. I never have myself. It Is a bird about as large as a small hen, of a 
pretty pink color, with three long and two short tail feathers, and a tufted head ; 
but the queerest thing about it is, it is hindside before, and topsy-turvy, and every 



374 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

which way generally. The left wing of a hoodoo is where the right wing ought 
to be, and the right where the left ought to be ; the tail feathers are where the head 
ought to be, and head where the tail ought to be ; the feet and the head are topsy- 
turvy, so it has to tumble over and hop the wrong side up, and it has always to fly 
to the left when it wants to go to the right, and to go to the right when it wants to 
go to the left. Now, look up in the tree, Eunice, just at the right of that big 
bough ; see the hoodoo's nest ? See it shine ?" 

Eunice looked obediently, and that time she did see an indistinct something 
in the top of the tree, giving out a dull reflection from the afternoon sun. 

"See it?" repeated Mr. Peter. 

"Yes, sir." 

"Looks like gold, doesn't it? Well, maybe it is gold. No one will ever 
know. No one can ever get that hoodoo's nest ; did you know that, Eunice ?" 

Mr. Peter's voice was very impressive. Eunice looked at him. 

"Well, I'll tell you why," said Mr. Peter. "Once I tried to get that hoodoo's 
nest, and I fell and broke my arm ; and once Sam Brown tried, and he fell and put 
his shoulder out of joint ; and once his brother Willy tried, and he came down with 
a fever next day. Nobody has ever tried to get that hoodoo's nest that some- 
thing hasn't happened to him." 

Eunice look earnestly at Mr. Peter and laughed shyly. Her boundary-line 
between the real and ideal was more marked in the case of birds than of dolls. 

Just then ]Mr. Peter's mother came to the south door to tell them that tea was 
ready. "What are you telling that child, Peter?" she asked. 

"Only about the hoodoo's nest in the tree, mother," replied Mr. Peter, 
quite seriously and innocently. 

Mrs. Tucker looked up in the tree and laughed. "Oh, that old paint pail," 
she said, "it has been up there ever since the house was painted one Spring 
twenty years ago. I never knew how it got there — I suppose one of the painters 
tossed it into the tree and it caught. The boys were always trying to climb 
the tree and get it. That was the way Peter broke his arm when he was ten 
years old. There isn't any such bird as a hoodoo, dear ; now, come right in to 
tea. Sally has gone to call the others in from the garden." 

Eunice, as she passed the parlor door on her way to the dining-room, saw 
the Doll in her little rocking-chair, and she was dressed in her pink spangled 
tarlatan, and the wide smile had disappeared ; she displayed, instead, her usual 
little, sweet, set pucker. 

The tea was very nice, even sumptuous, according to the ideas of the guests. 
Only Caroline and her friends sat at the table ; Mrs. Tucker thought they would 
enjoy their tea better by themselves. Miss Sally Tucker waited on them. Miss 
Sallv was Doctor Tucker's sister, but she was very much younger. Indeed, she 



MARY E. WILKINS 375 

was scarcely older than Mr. Peter, and her ways were even more lively than his. 
She was very pretty and very smart ; she could play on the piano and harp, and 
draw and paint, and make wax flowers, and do worsted work. The little girls ad- 
mired her very much. Eunice thought that she was even more beautiful than 
Mrs. Tucker, and Miss Sally noticed her more than she did any of the others. 

After tea Miss Sally took Eunice up to her room, and presented her with a 
beautiful little blue glass bottle filled with cologne. Eunice was delighted. She 
had never seen anything so pretty. Then Miss Sally smoothed back her hair and 
kissed her. "You are a darling," said she. Then she hesitated. Eunice thought 
she was going to say something very particular, but she did not ; she only 
laughed, and said she was not very much frightenedswhen the doll changed her 
dress, was she? And when Eunice said, "No, ma'am," kissed her again, and 
told her that she was the sweetest little thing in the world, Eunice smiled shyly 
up in the beautiful young lady's face, and felt very loving and grateful, though 
she was still much bewildered when she thought of the Doll. 

When Eunice got home that night, she seemed so sober that her aunt Maria 
noticed it. ' Eunice's parents had died when she was a baby, and she had lived 
with her aunt ever since she could remember. Miss Maria Staples was a school- 
teacher p.nd considered very strict. All the scholars stood in awe of her, Eunice 
as well as the rest, although the teacher was her own aunt. It was possible that 
Miss Staples was so afraid of being partial that she was even more strict with 
Eunice than with the others. 

"What ails you, child?" she asked that night, after Eunice had read her 
chapter. Eunice was reading the Bible through, a chapter every night. 

Eunice jumped. She had been sitting with her closed Bible on her knees, 
gazing straight ahead, her mouth drooping, her forehead knitted. 

"Nothing, ma'am," replied Eunice. She could not tell her aunt Alaria 
about the Doll. 

"Well, you had better go right to bed," said her aunt Maria. She thought 
that Eunice must be tired, and that was why she looked so sober. Eunice went 
to bed, but she lay awake a long time thinking about the Doll, and wondering if 
she was crying, shut up in the closet in the Tucker spare chamber. 

The next day the fall term of school began, and Eunice went in a clean pink 
calico dress and a blue gingham tie. All her friends who had been at the tea 
party were there, except Caroline Tucker. At the recess of the afternoon session 
Eunice heard some wonderful news about her. 

"Only think, Caroline is going West to stay six months with her grand- 
mother Whiting," said Esther Green to the girls, who were eating the apples 
which they had brought from luncheon out in the playground. 

They all stared. "Out West" had a tremendous sound in those times. 



276 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Caroline Tucker's grandmother lived no further west than New York State, but 
that was a goodly distance in those days of stage coaches. 

"Don't believe it," said one, stoutly. 

"Me, neither," said another. 

"It's so," declared Esther Green. "Her mother told my mother. That's 
why she didn't come to school. Caroline, she ain't been very well lately, and her 
grandmother Whiting is all alone since Caroline's aunt Jane got married, and 
so she's sent for Caroline right away ; the letter came this morning. Think the 
change will do Caroline good, and her grandmother's lonesome. There's a lady 
that liyos where her grandmother does, out West, is going home from Boston 
day after to-niorro\y, and Caroline is gx)ing with her. Caroline is going in the 
stage to Uoston to-morrow, so." Esther Green gave a triumphant and conclu- 
sive nod. vShe was a stout girl with an obstinate chin, who did not like to be 
contradicted. 

"Aly!" said a girl, drawing a long breath. 

"I s'pose she'll take the Doll," said Eunice Field. Eunice had not spoken 
before. 

"Of course she will," replied Esther Green; "it ain't likely she'd leave a doll 
like that at home." 

"Why, I don't believe there's a doll as big as that, with real hair, out West. 
Course she'll take it, Eunice Field." 

"Yes, I s'poscd she would," agreed Eunice, meekly. She reflected that she 
would stay home from out West all the days of her life, rather than go away and 
have such a doll as that shut up in a chest in the spare chamber for six months. 

Caroline Tucker started on her travels at eight o'clock in the morning, in the 
stage coach, which in those days plied between the villages and Boston. At re- 
cess that forenoon, all her friends got together to discuss it, and then Eunice in- 
([uired of Esther Green, who had seen Caroline, what the Doll wore. 

"She didn't carry the Doll," replied Esther Green, with a slightly crestfallen 
air. 

Eunice was never known to contradict any one, but this was an exception. 
"I don't believe it," said she. 

"Well, she didn't, so there, Eunice Field. I saw her start my own self, and 
she didn't carry the Doll." 

Eunice was incredulous for three days. Then, as she was going home from 
school one night she met Mr. Peter Tucker. He bowed gravely when she courte- 
sicd, and she had almost passed him when he sighed deeply, and she knew what 
was coming. "Oh," said Mr. Peter, "you ought to hear that poor Doll-baby cry, 
now her mother has gone and she's shut up day and night in that chest ; it's 
awful." 



MARY E. WILKINS 377 

Eunice cast such a pitiful, beseeching glance at Mr. Peter Tucker that his 
conscience smote him a little, but he only nodded with grave emphasis, and 
went on. 

Eunice was so very sober that night that her aunt resolved to mix her up 
some sulphur and molasses, to take three mornings and skip three, and give it to 
her at once. She thought that she could not be well. 

It so happened that the next day, after school, Eunice's aunt Maria sent her 
on an errand to Doctor Tucker's house. She was part way there when she met 
Mr. Peter Tucker, and Mrs. Tucker and Miss Sally were a little way behind him. 

Mr. Peter had his fishing rod. He bowed to Eunice and sighed. 

"She had a dreadful night," he whispered, hurriedly, and then Mrs. Tucker 
and Miss Sally came up and spoke to Eunice. They wore their best bonnets and 
carried parasols and were going out to make calls. 

"Were you going up to our house for that cape pattern for your aunt, my 
dear?" inquired Mrs. Tucker. 

"Yes, ma'am," replied Eunice. 

"I thought you might be. Your aunt said she would send for it some night 
after school. Well, my dear, there isn't a soul in the house, but the key to the 
south door is under the mat. You unlock the door and go right in. You know 
where Caroline's chamber is, dear?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Well, you go right up there and you will see the patterns tied up with a 
pink tape on Caroline's bed. You must lock the door when you go out and put 
the key under the mat." 

"Yes. ma'am," answered Eunice. 

Eunice went on to Doctor Tucker's house. She found the key under the 
rush mat, unlocked the south door and entered. The house was still and echoed 
so that she stood hesitating at the foot of the stairs. Her heart beat hard, and 
she looked around fearfully. Then she shut her mouth tightly and ran upstairs 
as fast as she could go, as if she were fleeing from her own fear. 

Caroline's chamber was a pretty little room, with white curtains, a white 
valanced bed and a white frilled dressing-table. The cape pattern tied with the 
pink tape lay on the bed. 

Eunice took it and went out. She was at the head of the stairs, when she 
glanced in an open door on her right. It was the door of the spare chamber. 
Right opposite stood a beautiful carved oak chest, which might have come over 
in the Mayflower. Eunice stopped. She thought she heard. It was only her 
imagination, or the cry in her own ears of her own pitying, loving little heart; 
but she thought she heard. 

Five minutes later the south door of Doctor Tucker's house was locked, the 



3/8 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE - 

key was under the mat, and a little girl, with a great doll clasped fast to her bosom, 

was flying as for her life through the fields and gardens behind the houses on the 

east side of the village street, never stopping until she reached Miss Staples's 

little garden patch. 

PART III. 

There was a tall asparagus bed in Miss Staples's garden, and in this, as in the 
green and feathery glens of a veritable doll's forest, Eunice hid the Doll. She 
caught a glimpse of her aunt Maria moving past the kitchen windows, preparing 
supper, and she determined to conceal the Doll in the asparagus bed until she 
could take her into the house without detection. 

Aunt Maria was frying flap-jacks for supper ; she was so busy turning a big 
brown one that she did not look around when Eunice entered the kitchen. 

"I declare, I should think you had flown, you have been so quick; did you 
get the pattern?" said she. 

"Yes, ma'am," replied Eunice. 

"Well, take it into the sitting-room, and then you can set the table for 
supper." 

Eunice's aunt never looked at her, she was so busy with the flap-jacks, until 
she sat opposite her at the tea-table. Then she laid down the knife and fork, with 
which she was raising a section of the pile of sugared and spiced flap-jacks, and 
stared at her. 

"Eunice Field," said she; "what ails you? Are you sick?" 

"No, ma'am," replied Eunice, faintly. 

"Did you run going to Doctor Tucker's?" 

"No, ma'am." 

"Did you run coming heme?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Well, I thought you did. I wondered how you ever went so quick. How 
many times have I got to tell you not to run ? You look all beat out. You eat 
your supper, and then you go straight to bed." 

Eunice was usually very fond of flap-jacks, but that night she had hard work 
to swallow a mouthful. After tea she went obediently to bed, though it was 
scarcely twilight. 

That evening Aunt Maria cut out her cape from some brown ladies'-cloth, 
stealing every now and then to the foot of the stairs to listen to some restless 
movement on the part of Eunice, for she felt anxious about her. At nine o'clock 
she went to bed herself ; at ten o'clock she was sound asleep, and the house was 
very dark and still. 

Then it was that a little white figure crept stealthily out of the west chamber, 



MARY E. WILKINS 379 

and downstairs, feeling every step in the darkness, then through the kitchen and 
out the back door, after cautiously slipping the bolt. 

Eunice had never been out-of-doors alone at night before, and the familiar 
garden seemed like a strange land to her. She sprang aside like a shying colt 
at a moonbeam athwart the potato patch ; a white cat slunk across the path, and 
her heart stood still, but she went on to the asparagus bed, and caught up the Doll 
in her trembling little arms. 

Then back she fied into the house, locked the door, and went upstairs in her 
own chamber and her own bed, and Aunt Maria had not stirred. Eunice's feet 
were icy cold ; she trembled from head to foot, and she slept no more that night, 
but she held the Doll cuddled close and warm, released from the lonely prison in 
the chest in the spare chamber of the Tucker house. "Mr. Peter won't hear you 
cry to-night. You are safe now, you precious," she whispered. 

The next morning, long before Aunt Maria was stirring, at the first glimmer 
of dawn, Eunice was up. She tip-toed up the garret stairs with the Doll, and hid 
her away in a chest where Aunt Maria kept her winter bed-clothes. She kissed 
the Doll's pink face lovingly, before she closed the lid. 

"Don't you be afraid ; I'll take you out to-night," she whispered. 

Miss Maria Staples, during the next two weeks, had no idea of the double 
life which her little niece was leading ; she worried considerably about her health, 
she looked so unnaturally grave and thoughtful, and even had a little tonic pre- 
pared for her by Doctor Tucker, but she did not dream of the true state of things. 
Every night, after her aunt was asleep. Eunice stole up the garret-stairs, in fear 
and trembling, for the garret was an awful place to be in at night. She was afraid 
of mice ; she was afraid of the dark and all the intangible horrors which it might 
conceal, but she braved everything for the sake of the beloved Doll, who was 
lifted tenderly from the chest, carried down to her own bed, and cuddled in her 
arms until dawn. Sometimes, too, during the day, when Aunt Maria was away 
or busy, Eunice would steal up to the garret and comfort the Doll a little while in 
her loneliness. 

So matters went on for two weeks ; then Caroline Tucker came home. Eu- 
nice heard of it at school, the day afterward. 

"Caroline has got home," said Esther Green at recess, wath the importance 
of a bearer of surprising news. 

"Why, she hasn't been gone six months yet," said another girl, wonderingly ; 
and the rest crowded around to hear. 

"Well, she's got home, anyhow," said Esther Green. "My mother was in 
there last night and she saw her. Caroline had come home because there was 
scarlet fever in the neighborhood out West where her grandmother lives, and her 
grandmother's youngest son, Caroline's uncle Ephraim, died with it when he 



38o BEST THINGS FROM AMERICx\N LITERATURE 

was a baby, and Caroline's aunt never had it. Her grandmother brought her 
home — why, Eunice Field, what is the matter with you ?" 

All the girls stared at Eunice, who was white, and trembling as if she had a 
chill. 

"Have you got the toothache?" asked Esther Green. 

Eunice shook her head and ran into the schoolroom. She sat down at her 
desk and leaned her head on it, and her aunt came to her and anxiously inquired, 
as Esther had done, what was the matter. Eunice only sobbed pitifully in such 
a weak, convulsive way that Miss Staples was terrified. She called in the girls 
and questioned them, but they did not know what ailed Eunice. Finally Aunt 
Maria sent her home, giving her the house-key. 

"You take this, and run right straight home," said she, "and you lie down on 
the sitting-room lounge and keep quiet, till I get home." 

Aunt ]Maria made up her mind to call in the doctor after school as she 
watched the miserable, trembling little figure creep out of the schoolhouse yard. 
Eunice went home — most of the way kept her arm in its blue gingham sleeve 
crooked over her face. Just as she reached her own gate, Mr. Peter Tucker 
overtook her. He bent his head low as he came near her. 

"That poor Doll-baby had a dreadful — " he began, then he fairly jumped at 
the look which Eunice gave him. It was at once grieved and reproachful, terri- 
fied and accusing. Suddenly Eunice saw through Mr. Peter. 

"No, she didn't," she cried; "you didn't hear her cry last night. You tell 
fibs — " with that Eunice was inside her own gate and Mr. Peter was standing, 
staring after her. He walked on a little way, then he returned and paused before 
the gate, as if he had a mind to enter, then he strolled slowly past. 

Presently Eunice came hurriedly out of the house, and she carried the Doll 
in her arms. Straight out of the gate and up the street she went, without a turn 
to the right or left. The flaxen head and pink face of the Doll showed over her 
shoulder as she marched along. Mr. Peter followed. 

Eunice kept on until she reached the Tucker house. She went up to the 
south door and knocked, and some one opened it before Mr. Peter entered the 
yard. When he opened the door, a moment later, he heard a shrill, clear, child- 
ish voice, from the parlor. He went in, and there sat Mrs. Tucker, and Miss 
Sallie Tucker. Grandmother Whiting, and Caroline with her unfinished black 
silk apron in her lap, and there stood Eunice holding the Doll, and speaking very 
fast. 

"I took her," said Eunice. "He — " and she looked at Mr. Peter — "told me 
she changed her dress, and smiled, and how she cried nights. He told me how 
dreadful she cried nights after Caroline went. He said he heard her last night. 
He didn't. He tells fibs. I had her. I took her — I came for Aunt Maria's pat- 



MARY E. WILKINS 381 

tern, and I saw the chest where she was, and — I — I thought I heard her, and I — 
took her to sleep with me while Caroline was gone, and nov; I've brought her 
back." 

Grandmother Whiting was a large, fair-faced old lady, in black bombazine 
and a white lace kerchief and white lace cap. The first thing that Eunice knew 
she and the Doll were both gathered into her wide, soft embrace. 

"You poor little puppet," said Grandmother Whiting, "the Doll-baby don't 
cry ; doll-babies don't ever cry, bless your little heart." Grandmother Whiting 
choked a little as she spoke. "I don't see what the child means by the Doll's 
changing her dress and smiling," she said in an anxious aside to jNIrs. Tucker. 
"She isn't out of her head, is she?" 

Miss Sally Tucker came swiftly across the room and knelt in a swirl of pink 
flounces beside Grandmother Whiting. She got hold of Eunice's little hand 
and kissed it penitently. 

"It was a shame," she said, tearfully. "Peter put me up to it, but I was as 
much to blame as he." 

Then Miss Sally confessed how she had aided Mr. Peter to play upon poor 
Eunice's credulity, and had hidden herself behind the screen in the afternoon of 
the tea-party, and while Mr. Peter diverted Eunice's attention, had changed the 
Doll's dress and widened her smile by drawing a tiny upward line of carmine at 
each corner of her mouth. "I was afraid I could not get it off and had spoiled 
Caroline's Doll, but I did," faltered Miss Sally. "I never thought the dear child 
would take it the way she did. I wanted to tell her all about it, but Peter thought 
it would spoil the joke." 

"I don't call it a joke," Mrs. Tucker said, quite severely. 

"All I can say is, I am sorry, mother," Mr. Peter said, soberly. "I had no 
idea of the child's taking it so to heart. I thought she was too old to really be- 
lieve it. I've kept it up ever since, for every time I have met the poor little thing 
I have told her how that Doll was taking on nights." 

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Peter Tucker," said Grandmother 
Wdiiting. 

"I am, grandmother," returned Mr. Peter, ruefully. 

"Now," said Grandmother Whiting to Caroline, who had let her black silk 
apron slip to the floor, and sat staring in utter bewilderment at everybody and her 
Doll, of which she had not thought since her return, but which she certainly had 
supposed to be safe in the chest in the spare chamber, "I want you to do an 
errand. You go upstairs to my chamber, and you open the drawer in my table 
and you'll find a paper of peppermints. You bring them down." 

"There, there, poor little soul !" said she to Eunice, who was crying softly in 



382 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

her friendly bosom, "don't you think any more about it. Grandma's going to 
give you some nice peppermints." 

Miss Maria Staples hastened home from school — she was so anxious about 
Eunice — and found Mrs. Tucker watching for her in her front parlor. Eunice 
was out in the sitting-room on the lounge, where Mrs. Tucker had bade her lie 
quietly, and she heard for some time a hum of voices in the parlor. Finally the 
front door shut, and her aunt came into the sitting-room. She stooped over Eu- 
nice, sm.oothed her hair, and kissed her. "You did very wrong to deceive me, 
and make so free with other folk's belongings," said she. "You mustn't ever do 
such a thing again, and you mustn't be so silly, and believe such silly things. 
You're getting to be a big girl now." Then Aunt Maria kissed Eunice agam. 

It was a week after that, when one evening, as Eunice was reading her chap- 
ter and Aunt Maria was sewing, Mr. Peter Tucker knocked. When Eunice 
opened the door he entered, bearing a strange burden for a young man in Har- 
vard. He carried the Doll becomingly attired in a traveling costume of red 
cloak and white hat with blue ribbons. He also carried the Doll's wardrobe in a 
little trunk. Mr. Peter made a low bow and stated his errand at once. 

"I have bought a new doll for my sister which she is pleased to prefer to her 
old one," said he. "She does not feel able to care for two such children and finish 
her black silk apron, and therefore I have come to beg Miss Eunice to accept the 
Doll-baby, of which she took such loving care during her mother's absence." 



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BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 383 

A SPECIMEN OF MARY E. WILKINS'S MANUSCRIPT 

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JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



384 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 385 



A LIFE LESSON 

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

(Born at Greenfield, Ind., 1853) 

There, little girl, don't cry ! 

They have broken your doll, I know. 
And your teaset blue, and your playhouse, too, 

Are things of the long ago ; 
But childish troubles will soon pass by; 
There, little one, don't cry ! 

There, little girl, don't cry! 

They have broken your slate, I know, 
And the glad wild ways of your school-girl days 

Are things of the long ago ; 
But life and love will soon come by ; 
There, little girl, don't cry ! 

There, little girl, don't cry ! 

They have broken your heart, I know. 
And the rainbow gleams of your youthful dreams 

Are things of the long ago ; 
But Heaven holds all for which you sigh ; 
There, little girl, don't cry! 



Bv courtesy of the Bowen-Merrill Co., of Indianapolis, Ind. 




JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER 



386 




BEST THINGS FROM. AMERICAN LITERATURE 387 



A NIGHT OF DEFEAT 

BEING CHAPTER XXIII. FROM "A HEKAL,D OF THE WEST" 

BY JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER 

(Born in the village of Three Springs, Hart County, Kentucky, April 29, 1S62) 

S the darkness came out of the east and the silence of desolation spread 
over the doomed city I felt that it was time for me to go. The last 
straggler was disappearing, a wagon loaded with household goods had 
just lumbered past me and gone out of sight around a corner ; the night 
was settling down, thick and close, after a hot, burning day. There 
was nothing that one could do in Washington, and my sole idea then 
was to go to Georgetown and help in the escape and protection of Marian. I 
stood in Pennsylvania Avenue, where I had made my last effort to rally some 
uniformed fugitives. Near me loomed the Capitol, its white walls shining 
through the advancing dusk. I turned to go, and heard a rattle and shout and 
the tread of many feet. Before me blazed the red coats of an English regiment, 
advancing up the avenue, in but half order, their general, Ross, and the admiral, 
Cockburn, who commanded the blockading fieet, at their head. Theirs was 
not the precise, steady walk of the drill ground, of troops under strict discipline, 
but they came on in irregular lines, shouting and firing stray shots at the silent 
and unoffending walls of houses. I saw at once that these men, wild and drunk 
with triumph, were in truth the men of whom Wellington wrote, and less kin 
to the Puritans of Cromwell than ever. I was about to turn again for retreat 
another way, when my eye v^^as caught by the figure of an officer riding just 
behind the British general — a tall man, straight-shouldered, and riding stiffly. 
It was my kinsman. Major Northcote, in a brilliant uniform, all his seeming 
indifference gone, his face red with the flush of victory and gratified malice, 
as on this, the most triumphant day of his life, he rode toward the Capitol of the 
country which had injured him and which, I knew now, he hated with as much 
vindictive passion as the human breast is capable of holding. He fascinated me 
for the moment as Turnus in the yEneid or the Devil in Paradise Lost fascinates 
the reader. The light of the setting sun, reddestas it goes, blazed upon his face, 
and brought forth like Greek chiseling every strong and sharpened feature — the 
massive head, the projecting chin, the tight-shut lips, the high cheek bones, the 
seamed forehead, the thick gray hair above, the whole handsome as ever, but now 
harsh and repellent. 

Copyright, 189S, by D. Appleton & Co. Reprinted by special permission of the Publishers and Author. 



388 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

It was only for the moment that I looked, and then I turned again to flee 
down a side street. Some of the soldiers saw me and shouted to their comrades 
to shoot, setting the example by firing point-blank at my vanishing form, and the 
others followed quickly with a volley. But the twilight had come and the soldiers 
were unsteady. I heard their bullets whistling around me, but none touched me, 
and I told Philip Ten Broeck that it was time to show himself a man of speed and 
sure foot, and so telling I took his advice and darted into the side street. It was 
well for me that I looked before me, for my eyes were saluted again by a line of 
red uniforms, and down the side street at a trot came a company of British gren- 
adiers, shouting like their comrades in the avenue and firing at the houses, chang- 
ing their aim when I came and sending their bullets at me. This way was closed, 
and I ran back into the avenue, to find the main body of the troops still nearer. 
Obeying instinct, I ran straight ahead at a great pace and directly toward the 
Capitol. I would have tried another side street, but I feared that I would dash 
into a British company, for they seemed to be approaching from almost every di- 
rection, and I ran on toward the great building, which rose white and massive in 
the misty twilight. More muskets were discharged at me, and the troops shouted 
in delight like hunters at a fox chase ; but I had little fear of their bullets, which 
struck bushes and houses, but never my body. 

I dashed around a little patch of shrubbery, took a few leaps, and was then 
at the Capitol. I believed that the troops had lost sight of me, and I would hide 
in the building until the darkest part of the night came, when I would escape to 
the country. I listened for a moment behind one of the pillars, and then entered 
the Capitol. Books and parchments were scattered upon the floors, but around 
me was utter silence, and the darkness of night had gathered already in the lone 
rooms and halls. On a table in one of the rooms a candle burned dimly. How 
it came to be lighted I know not, but it sputtered there and threw its flickering 
flame on the marble walls like one of the torches that some religions burn at the 
feet of the dead. 

When I stepped heavily upon a stone floor the great building rumbled as the 
echo fled through hall and corridor, and the succeeding silence and desolation 
oppressed me. I went into the Senate chamber, where I had listened ':o the elo- 
quence of Mr. Clay urging on the war, and walked down between the rows of de- 
serted desks, some with rolls of papers lying upon them, and faced the Vice- 
President's chair, sitting there an emblem of emptiness and abandonment. It 
was now more than twilight in the silent chamber, for within those walls the dark- 
ness had come, and it was only my accustomed eyes that enabled me to see ; even 
then the walls and chairs and desks became shadowy, while the feeble rays of light 
that filtered through the windows made a pallid and ghostly hue where they fell. 
It was to me a dim chamber of the dead, and mv brain was excited with the wild 



JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER 389 

battle and flight of the day, the heat and dust, the shame and disgrace of the rout, 
and my presence alone there in that darkening room, from which the rightful oc- 
cupants had fled. My heart was filled with varying emotions, shame, anger, ex- 
citement ; my feet became light as air, and my brain swelled with strange ideas. I 
walked down the aisle and up to the Vice-President's chair, in which I took my 
seat and faced the empty chairs of the senators. 

It was a fine chair, a big chair, but I filled it, for I say again that my brain 
swelled with the excitement and battle of the day and held strange ideas. I 
looked down at the rows of silent desks and empty chairs, formless in the dark, 
and facing me like phantoms, and I trembled with indignation at those who had 
occupied them and had fled. I threw up my hand, and it struck a gavel on a little- 
marble-topped table by my side. The Vice-President's gavel ! He, too, was 
gone. Then I would wield it for him ! 

I rapped once, twice, thrice, on the marble table for order. The resonant 
stone gave back the sound, and the dim chamber echoed with it. The rows of 
desks, looking more than ever in the thickening dusk hke phantoms of men, faced 
me, ordered and silent. 

I rose to my feet, the gavel still in my hand. 

"Senators, pillars of your country," I said, speaking clearly and distinctly, 
"for years we were threatened with war, and we had no recourse but war. Then 
you brought us war. Is it not so?" 

No answer ; no dissent. 

"Then you brought us war, I say, and you did right ; and, still holding the 
blessings of peace in view, you made no preparations for it. You gave us war, 
but you denied us any army or arms. Is it not true?" 

No answer. 

"Does the senator from Massachusetts deny it ? He does not ? Does the 
senator from South Carolina deny it? Does the senator from New York deny 
it? They do not. Then, be it resolved that we are sluggards and blockheads 
and unfit for our posts. Does any one oppose the resolution?" 

No answer. 

"Unanimously adopted. Let it be entered upon the record, Mr. Clerk, that 
the noble senators, by unanimous resolution, have decided that they are sluggards 
and blockheads and unfit for their posts. Moreover, gentlemen of the Senate, 
when the enemy appeared at your gates you organized no resistance, but fled in 
haste and disgrace from your capital, leaving it to its fate. Therefore, be it re- 
solved, gentlemen of the Senate, that we are cowards, one and all; rank, scurvy 
cowards. Does any one oppose the resolution?" 

No answer. 



390 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Unanimously adopted. Enter it upon the record, Mr. Clerk, that the sen- 
ators, by unanimous resolution, have decided that they are cowards." 

"Present arms ! Take aim !'' 

The command, loud and sharp, came through the windows and recalled me 
to what was passing outside. I sprang from the chair and running to the win- 
dow looked out, but I took only one brief look. The British companies were 
drawn up, muskets presented and aimed at the windows of the Capitol. Between 
their lines I could see Major Northcote on his horse, his face still flushed with all 
the joy of insolent triumph, and I knew that he more than any other had helped to 
guide and lead them there. He had used his time in Washington well for him — 
too well for us. 

"Fire !" 

Three hundred muskets were discharged at once, and the bullets smashed 
into the windows of the Capitol. The glass over my head was shattered into a 
thousand pieces, and poured down a rain of bits and splinters upon me. The 
bullets whistled through the air and pattered upon the opposite walls. I re- 
mained crouched where I was under the window, for I expected a second volley, 
and it came quickly. Thev were so close that the flame from the muskets seemed 
to flash in at the windows ; the glass left by the first discharge rattled upon the 
floor, the smoke pufifed in, and the whole building resounded and echoed with the 
volleys. The second discharge was succeeded by a stream of scattering shots, 
and then I heard them shouting and cursing at the doors and pouring into the 
building. 

I had rushed into the Capitol through instinct, thinking that I might find a 
safe hiding-place for a while in its deserted halls. In the fierce wars of the French 
Revolution and those that came after, nearly every capital city of Europe had 
been taken, and always they had been spared. The armies of the French republic 
and the Napoleonic empire had entered capital after capital on the continent of 
Europe, and they had harmed none ; if Moscow was burned it was not Napoleon's 
soldiers, but its own inhabitants, who burned it. The English and the Cossacks 
had been in Paris, and they had left Paris as it was ; but when the English, from 
whom we are descended, entered our new little capital of Washington, just rising 
from bush and marsh, they raged with the mad lust that savages have for de- 
struction. 

As I sprang into one of the halls I saw the soldiers rushing into the building, 
some with lighted torches in their hands and others firing their muskets at the 
ceiling, the walls, chandeliers — anything that was large enough to be a target. 
All were wild with that insane fury which in Malay countries they call running 
amuck. All were yelling and cursing, and the building resounded with the din 
and confusion. Outside, their atlmiral, Cockburn, galloped up and down on a 



JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER 391 

white mare, followed by her foal, a ferocious and ludicrous figure, bellowing to 
his men, egging them on, cursing the building and the nation that had built it. 
Truly the better England was dead, that night ! 

I ran down a hall and toward one of the back windows, hoping to escape 
through it, but some soldiers there blocked my way. The whole building 
swarmed with them — they were everywhere, shouting and firing pistols and mus- 
kets and setting torches to wooden furniture or whatever else inflammable they 
could find. Twice I saw Major Northcote, torch aloft, and shouting to the men 
to spare nothing. His seemed to be the most ruthless hand in all that ruthless 
band. Some of the halls and rooms were as light as day, for in places the in- 
terior of the building was already in a bright blaze ; in others, which the flames 
had not yet reached, it was still dark. Columns of smoke poured down the halls, 
and the crackling of burning material mingled with the shouts and oaths of the 
troops. In the half light and the savage orgie no one noticed me, though more 
than once I brushed against the soldiers as I sought some way of escape. All 
seemed to be closed to me ; the British were everywhere in the building, and out- 
side they surrounded it. In the dusk of the dim halls, with the men thinking of 
nothing but to destroy the senseless wood and stone, I could escape notice, but 
outside, where so many torches flared and officers and soldiers looked on, they 
would be sure to mark me the moment I appeared. I felt for the first time a fear 
for my life, but I did not think of surrender, and had I thought of it, the idea 
would have been dismissed the next moment, since I could expect no quarter from 
these men. 

The flames were roaring now and licked out at the windows, showers of 
sparks formed a luminous core for the columns of smoke which poured down the 
halls, and the snapping and popping were like the incessant crackling of pistol 
shots. The soldiers, their work well done, were rushing from the building, and 
I fled alone into a small room, where I paused like a wild beast chased from his 
lair by fire. I stood there by a window, half strangled by the smoke and scorched 
by the flying sparks. Behind me the flames roared, and across at the other wing 
they shot far above the roof, casting a wide circuit of light around the burning 
building. I saw Major Northcote rush out, mount his horse, and ride up by the 
side of General Ross and Admiral Cockburn. The three sat together for a few 
moments, on their horses, looking at the flaming Capitol, then they gave com- 
mands to the soldiers, who turned about and marched down the avenue toward 
the White House. 

I stood there yet a little longer watching them as they marched, until the 
crash of falling woodwork behind me said that it was time to go ; then, letting 
myself down from the window, I dropped lightly to the earth outside. I shrank 
for a little against the wall of the building that I might be protected by its shadow, 



392 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

for there were still straggling soldiers about, drunk with success and more real 
liquor, firing their muskets and ready for murder. 

A light wind was fanning the fire, which was increasing fast, and the walls 
grew hot. Cinders and half-burned pieces of wood were falling about me, and 
smoked or burned in the grass where they fell. I made a dash and crossed the 
circle of light unnoticed. Then, skulking in the darkness behind the houses and 
])atches of bushes, I followed the general direction in which Ross and Cockburn 
had gone, turning occasionally to look back at the Capitol, now a mass of fire, yet 
with the white of the marble still gleaming here and there through the sheets of 
flame. All about it the earth was lighted up, but beyond lay the encircling rim of 
darkness, and above it the clouds of smoke mingled with other clouds which were 
drifting across the sky and formed a sombre canopy. 

The English were hastening toward the President's house, and in a few min- 
utes I saw columns of flame shooting up from its roof and bursting from the win- 
dows, while soldiers carrying loot from the rooms rushed about showing their 
spoils. Then the torch was set to the Treasury, and at the same time the flames 
shot up from the navy-yard, where the buildings and the incomplete ship on the 
dock were burning. All the time the shouting and cursing and indiscriminate 
firing went on. The soldiers shot at any one they met not wearing their uni- 
form, and I saw a man named Lewis murdered in the street because he rebuked 
them for savagery. Higher and higher rose the flames from the doomed build- 
ings, and drunken soldiers danced by their light, while others broke down the 
doors of houses and ransacked them for plunder. 

I saw that my curiosity, the strange fascination that this wild scene, smack- 
ing of the bloody deeds of antiquity, had for me, had led me again into danger. 
I had approached too near the avenue, and hearing soldiers shouting in the cross 
streets behind me, I pushed open the door of a little negro cabin that stood on 
Pennsylvania avenue and entered. I had now all my wits about me and knew 
what I was doing. There was no sign of life in the place, and it was too humble 
and mean for any one to search there for plunder. In one corner was a ladder 
leading to a little loft, the eaves of which sloped almost to the ceiling of the first 
floor. But I went lightly up the ladder, which I pulled into the loft after me, and 
then I squeezed myself down between the floor and the sloping roof, where I 
could look out through a little foot-square window, without any glass in it, and 
see what passed. 

The night was far advanced, and yet the soldiers still rioted, their command- 
ers apparently making no effort to restore order, but seeking rather to increase 
the wildness and savagery of the orgie. What an opportunity it would have 
been for a little army of our regular troops, which fought so bravely on other 
fields ! All the British forces would have been routed in half an hour. But <-he 



JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER 393 

thought brought only bitterness and shame, for that Httle army of regular troops 
was not there. 

The flames from the burning buildings still lighted up Washington, and had 
it been a solidly built city, instead of a scattered village with a few detached and 
splendid structures, the whole of it would have been on fire before this. But 
even as it was the flames were increasing, and the clouds of smoke widened and 
darkened. There were other clouds, too, piling up in the sky, and a west wind 
was moaning. The cinders and ashes driven by the gusts were falling every- 
where, and a fine gray dust sifted in at my little window and lodged upon my face. 

Despite the gigantic bonfires of the burning buildings, the night began to 
grow darker, the moan of the wind grew to a shriek ; in the far southwest the 
clouds were piling up higher and higher — big, black and threatening. The fig- 
ures of the rioting soldiers grew shadowy, mere black lines against the fiery back- 
ground. 

My brain still throbbed with excitement, and my hands felt hot to the touch 
of each other, but I had no thought of rest. I could not have slept if I had tried, 
and I lay there with my face in the hole in the wall which served as a window and 
watched, as the sack of the city went on. 

The advancing clouds dimmed the light of the fires, the shots became few, 
then ceased, the figures of the soldiers, save in the brightest light, melted from 
black lines into nothing, but the clouds of ashes grew thicker. The shouting died, 
and after it came a stillness broken only by the sweep of the flames and the rush of 
the wind. I looked up at the sky : not a star, not a strip of moonlight was there ; 
the heavy gray clouds of smoke had gathered against the darker background of 
other clouds, and through both shone a red gleam from the fires below. The air 
was dense and heavy, and its closeness, the red-black of the sky, the feeling left 
by the wild scenes of the night, seemed to portend a convulsion of Nature — an 
earthquake, perhaps. Aly own senses were oppressed. Brain and heart felt as if 
they were clogged up. 

The wind was whistling and shrieking around the little cabin. The air grew 
purer under its breath, and the flames of the burning city bent far over as it swept 
against them. In the southwest the clouds were of a jetty blackness, but suddenly 
they parted before a flash of lightning which cut the sky like a sword blade from 
the center of the heavens to the earth. 

The glare of the lightning upon my eyeballs was so strong that the red gleam 
in the air lingered after the flash was gone and the clouds had closed again over 
its track. The rumble of thunder came from the far southwest, and the wind 
shrieked its delight. The columns of fire bent farther over before its rush, and it 
seemed to me that ribbons of flame were torn ofif to float a little in the air and 
vanish. Toward the burning White House a few distorted figures were yet vis- 



394 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

ible against the red background, but they, too, soon fled after the other soldiers 
who were seeking shelter. 

The thunder began to rumble again and did not cease, but came nearer ; 
the unbroken shriek of the wind was like the wailing of a thousand bagpipes, and 
drops of cold rain, driven like pistol balls, struck me in the face. The lightning 
began an incessant play in the heavens, flashing here and reappearing there with 
such rapidity and intensity that my eyes ached, though I did not cease to look. 
The raindrops thickened into a shower and then into a steady rush, swept on by 
the wind. The thunder now cracked and rolled incessantly, and after all tlie 
wild events of the day and evening, with the city burning around me, I was be- 
holding at midnight of a hot August night a fierce storm of thunder and light- 
ning. Nature seems to set her most terrible efforts against those of man. Tlie 
rain poured as if the bottom of all the clouds had dropped out, and in the street 
a river of mud and water was running. The buildings burned bravely on for a 
while ; but the flood was too great for the flames, and though they fought long, 
they began to smoulder at last and then went out, but left only blackened walls, 
all else being consumed. The city w^as then in darkness, save for the light of two 
or three camp-fires which glimmered through the wet and blackness of the 
storm, and, exhausted with the exertion and excitement of the day and night, 
though thinking nothing of sleep, I slept. 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 395 

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BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 399 

ODIN MOORE'S CONFESSION 

A CHRISTMAS STORY 

BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE 

1^ T was two o'clock on Christmas morning when Odin Moore, accom- 
panied by two or three boon companions as jolly and noisy as'himself, 
mounted the steps of his lodgings in West Twenty-third Street, New 
York. The moon, past her prime, shone down on the street, which 
was covered with dingy snow, except where the long narrow line of 
the sidewalks had been cleared. Odin Moore thrust his pass-key 
into the lock. 

"Come in, you fellows!" he said to the others. "Cigars and whiskey! 
We'll make a night of it! No shirking now — in you go!" 

"No more in mine, thank you," replied one; "I'm ofif to bed." 

"So'm I," added another. "I'll have bad 'nough headache as 'tis. You're 
the devil when you get started! 'Nough's good's a feast. Bye-bye!" 

They stumbled down the steps, and, linking arms, started up the street. 
Odin ]\Ioore looked after them with sullen contempt for a moment, then turned 
the key in the lock, entered, and closed the door behind him with a bang that 
echoed along the silent and frozen street. 

As he passed down the dark passage leading to his room, he shivered. Not 
that he was cold ; he had too much liquor in him for that. But he knew that he 
was going to pass a bad quarter of an hour, and he dreaded it. These lonely 
small hours of the night were hateful to him. Though he despised the men with 
whom he associated, he could ill spare their society at such times. 

However, with a shrug of the shoulders, he opened the door of his room 
and went in, and, stepping quickly to the table, turned up the gas. Then he cast 
his eyes about him with a rapid, covert glance. The room was empty. 

It was a fair-sized room, tastefully decorated and furnished. There were 
low bookshelves round the walls, and above them were ranged some good oil 
paintings, engravings, and etchings. On the mantelpiece, above the open fire- 
place, were photographs of half a dozen handsome women, all of them actresses, 
or otherwise publicly known. The oblong writing-table, covered with morocco 
leather, was littered with papers and magazines. On either side of the fire- 
place was a deep-seated easy chair ; and there was a comfortable sofa beneath the 
windt)w. Nothing cheap, commonplace or inelegant was visible. Odin Moore 
evidently possessed culture, a love of beauty, and means to gratify his tastes. 




JULIAN HAWTHORNE 



400 



JULIAN HAWTHORNE 401 

He sat down at the table, opened the cupboard on the right-hand side, and 
took out a decanter of whiskey and a box of cigars. He rose again the next mo- 
ment, took off his heavy overcoat and sealskin cap, and heaped coal upon the 
embers of the grate. Then he returned to his chair, lit a cigar, and poured out a 
wineglass full of whiskey. As he did so, he noticed a letter lying on the writing- 
pad on the table. 

He took it up and examined the handwriting, which seemed to have a dim 
familiarity, though he could not identify it. 

"Not a woman, at all events," he said to himself. "Well, I'll open it. 
Christmas present, perhaps !" he added, with a half laugh, as he broke the seal. 

The letter was from Maurice Matlock. Moore had not seen him and had 
scarcely heard from him in nearly ten years. But they had once been great 
friends. Then Matlock had gone West, and out of Moore's knowledge. 

The letter said that he was married, and had come to live in New York. He 
was still following literature as a profession, "with no remarkable results, either 
in fame or money. But I am very fortunate in other respects," the letter went on, 
"and I hope you will come and see for yourself at once. We shall expect you 
all day to-morrow. I have told my wife all about you — that you were and are 
the best fellow in the world; so she is almost as anxious to see you as I am. I 
have just finished a volume of poems, which my wife thinks are very good, and I 
hope to get them published in the Spring. Come and tell me what you think of 
them." 

"Married, and still writing poetry, is he?" commented Odin Moore, laying 
down the letter. "And thinks I am the best fellow in the world ! Evidently he 
hasn't changed much. Neither have I — except that what was always in me has 
come out. Still, it would surprise Maurice if I were to tell him the story of the 
last few years ; perhaps he wouldn't be so eager to introduce me to his wife ! 
Wonder whether she's pretty ? Pshaw ! Probably not. Maurice was never cut 
out to get on in this world ; and he'd be sure to marry the wrong woman — either 
a shrew or a fool. Not that he need be afraid of me, if she were a goddess. 
Though I'm not a saint, I can draw the line where I choose, and I should draw 
it at " 

He stopped abruptly. The same nervous shiver that had overtaken him in 
the passage returned. He clenched his teeth and put a restraint upon himself. 
He was sitting with one elbow on the table, in which position his back was half 
turned towards the fireplace. Above the bookcase, on the side of the room op- 
posite him as he sat, were two engravings from pictures by Michael Angelo, one 
of the creation of Eve, the other of the Fall. Odin fastened his gaze upon these, 
and kept it there as long as he could. But it was no use ; the impulse to turn 
round was too strong, and after a minute he yielded to it. 



402 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

First lie shifted his position in his chair, crossing the left leg over the right ; 
then he turned his face. His eyes now rested upon the easy-chair to the left of 
the fireplace. It had been empty a moment before, but now a figure was seated 
in it. 

Odin regarded this figure, not with terror, but with poignant repugnance. 
He had seen it a hundred times before, and was perfectly aware that it was a 
hallucination. He knew that, were he to rise and go to the easy-chair, the figure 
would be no longer there ; but he also knew that it would simply have changed 
its position to some other part of the room. When its visitations first began, 
some years ago, he had consulted medicine, science and philosophy for an ex- 
planation and cure. Explanations he had obtained in abundance ; but a cure, not 
yet. The figure was the visible projection of his own mind, thought, or nature. 
It was visible only to himself, but it was none the less one of the most real and 
hideous of his experiences. It was easy to say that it was an image formed in 
the brain, and affecting the optic nerves in such a manner as to assume apparent 
external form ; for, whatever might be said about it, there it was, and there it re- 
mained, until, in obedience to the unknown law of its being, it vanished. But 
nothing that Odin could do or think would hasten its departure by one moment. 

It was the figure of a man of commanding height and bearing, about forty 
years of age, with a broad, impending brow overshadowing gloomy eyes. It was 
the same face and figure that would have confronted Odin had he looked into a 
mirror ; only there was something in the expression of this countenance, and in 
the influence of the whole apparition, wdiich no reflection in a mirror could reveal. 
It revealed the interior of a heart ; it disclosed the secret of a sin. Human beings 
could be kept in ignorance, or deceived ; but Odin's double knew Odin with the 
certainty of self-knowledge. 

The gloomy eyes of the figure met those of Odin. 

"Are you sure that you will draw the line there?" it seemed to ask. 

''Maurice is the only man I ever respected," Odin replied, "and I shall respect 
whatever he loves and respects. I have not lost the power of being honorable." 

"You loved and respected a woman once," answered the other. "The op- 
portunity came and you betrayed her. A\'hat you have done once, you will do 
again." 

''She had been taken from me by unfair means," exclaimed Odin. "She 
cared nothing for the man who married her. The law that parted us was unjust, 
and I was justified in taking it into my own hands." 

"If you were justified, why, when she died, did you not confess what you had 
done? If you were honorable, why did you allow yourself to benefit by her 
death ?" 

"I did nothing; I only accepted what fate brought," Odin replied. "She 



JULIAN HAWTHORNE 403 

died with the sin unknown to the world; should I have blackened her memory? 
The will that was found was unsigned ; had it been valid, do you think I would 
have contested it? I was next of kin, and I inherited. I hated the man and 
his money ; but he was at the bottom of the sea, and no one but I had any claim." 

"The money seems to have served you well, for all you hated it," said the 
other, with a gloomy smile. 

"You know whether or not I have been happy," returned Odin, with a groan. 
"I had the making of a good man in me, but fate has been against me. I was 
poor, to begin with, and yet I had the temperament and the love of beautiful 
things that need money to gratify them. I loved a beautiful and good woman, 
and, because I was poor, I had to stand by and see her given to another. Every- 
thing tender in me has been hardened ; everything trustful has been deceived ; 
everything hopeful has been disappointed " 

"And everything pure has been polluted," interrupted the other. 

"Let Him who made me answer for it, then ! Why did He not fit me to my 
surroundings ? He has mocked me from the beginning ; even the gift of fortune, 
when it came at last, was so given as to make me seem to myself like a felon. I 
had looked forward to wealth as the means not only of being happy myself, but 
of making others so, and of surrounding myself with friends who loved and hon- 
ored me. But the devil who tempted me to my first sin has made it the means of 
dragging me into others ; I have lost my good name and social repute, till I can 
call scarcely one worthy man my friend, and not one worthy woman ! And that 
is what is called Divine mercy ! God give me the chance, even now, and I would 
do as well as any man !" 

"B_, and by is easily said !" responded the other. "It is the old story ; but 
the evil is not in your circumstances, but in you. If you were transported to- 
morrow to the Garden of Eden, before night you would be on your belly with the 
serpent !" 

"I deny it !" cried Odin, passionately. "To-day is Christmas, when Christ 
came to help men in their struggle against the Evil One. If Christ be living still, 
I ask Him to help me, and I will not prove unworthy." 

He started t© his feet as he spoke ; but the chair by the fireplace was empty ; 
he was alone. 

******* 

The sun rose clear on Christmas morning, and the bells chimed through the 
pure frosty air. It was nearly noon when Odin arrived at the address that Mat- 
lock had given him, and rang the door-bell. He had hardly kicked the snow ofif 
his boots, when the door was opened by a lovely young woman, whose face had a 
sweeter brightness than the sunshine itself, as she smiled upon the visitor. 

"Are vou Mr. Moore?" she asked. 



404 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Yes," said he, gazing at her. 

"I was sure of it!" she exclaimed. "I am Maurice's wife." She held out 
her hand, which Odin took in his. "You are to come right in," she went on. 
"jMaurice has just gone out to get something for dinner. He'll be back directly ; 
it's just round the corner. How glad he'll be ! He said he didn't believe you 
would come to-day, but I said I knew you would. And so you are Odin Moore ! 
Well — you look just the way I hoped you would !" 

"I'm sure I'm glad of it!" said Odin. 

Maurice's wife was of medium height, and beautifully formed. Her hair was 
brown and wavy, her eyes long, sweet and sparkling, her skin cream and rose. 
Her dress was severely simple, of a soft woollen fabric, gray trimmed with red ; 
but it suited her well. Her hands and wrists were extremely beautiful in shape, 
but Odin could see that she was not afraid to do her cooking, sweeping, and, per- 
haps, washing with them. But what impressed him most about her was the over- 
flowing joyousness of her expression and manner. It was something to which 
he was by no means accustomed in women. Happiness seemed to flow in her 
veins, dance in her eyes, and make music in her voice. She was happy because 
her husband loved her, because she loved him, because she believed in a good 
God. and because she thought the world was beautiful and kind. And of that 
world, of which as yet she knew so little, she evidently thought that Odin was a 
most agreeable and favorable specimen. How should a friend of her husband 
be other than good and delightful ? 

After a while Odin unfolded a voluminous paper that he held in his hand, and 
disclosed a magnificent bunch of roses. 

"I thought you might like some flowers — " he began. 

She interrupted him with a scream of joy. 

"Oh, Mr. Moore ! Was ever anything so splendid ! Oh, how can I thank 
you ! Oh, what will Maurice say ! How could you know how I love roses ! 
And at Christmas, too ! It is like a miracle !" 

She took the glowing heap of fragrance in her arms, caressed them with her 
hands, dipped her lovely face into them, talked to them and reveled in them. 
Then she got water, vases and pitchers, and, with Odin's assistance and advice, 
disposed the superb blossoms about the little room, whose plainness and sim- 
plicity they made beautiful and did not mock, after the gracious habit of flowers. 
Before this pleasant task was completed the door opened, and Maurice Matlock 
appeared. 

As he grasped Odin's hand and looked in his face, Odin perceived that the 
years which had passed, though they had brought hardships and poverty to his 
friend, had also deepened his heart and enriched his mind ; that he was a larger 
and a better man than when thcv had last met. On the other hand, he was con- 



JULIAN HAWTHORNE 405 

scious that he himself had grown shallower and baser. But Maurice either could 
not or would not see this. His generous and trustful temper would admit the ex- 
istence of nothing that was not noble and honest in the man that he had known 
and loved. Odin was the dear old Odin, dearer than ever after their long parting. 
And Odin felt stimulated and purified by the mere glow of his friend's belief and 
support. 

Hereupon the conversation became animated and general. Maurice had 
bought a turkey and two mince-pies, which were examined and appraised, and 
borne off to the kitchen to be cooked. But/as the cooking involved the absence 
of Mrs. Matlock, of whom nothing could be seen beyond occasional glimpses 
through the kitchen door, as she bent over the stove or reached down the dishes, 
Odin insisted that he and Maurice should go in and help her ; so the two men took 
ofif their coats, and became assistant cooks, amidst great jollity and laughter. 
Moreover, Odin turned out to be something of a culinary genius, and, under his 
workmanship, the turkey took on a savor ravishing to the senses ; the vegetables 
assumed the aspect of the most recherche French delicacies ; and a soup, contain- 
ing flavors of everything appetizing, materialized itself, as it seemed, out of noth- 
ing at all. Everything that Odin did increased the delight and admiration of 
Maurice and Juliet — for Juliet was her name; and Odin had never in his life 
laughed so much, or had so good a time. Never, moreover, had he heard such 
lovely laughter as was continually bubbling up between Juliet and Maurice. 
They were so much in love with each other, and so happy about it, that the least 
thing was enough to set them off. No'man and woman were ever better matched 
than these two, although they probably had not a thousand dollars in the world ; 
and Maurice was at least thirty-five years old, while Juliet was barely twenty. 
But to hear them laugh, you would have thought — and Odin seriously began to 
think — they must be a stray pair of Christmas angels. 

In about two hours dinner was ready. And then the recollection came over 
Odin, like a gust of impure air suddenly taking the place of the perfume of violets 
and lilies, that he was engaged to lunch that afternoon with a party at an uptown 
hotel. They were to have a private room, and were to be a very choice com- 
pany. Blanche Downey was to be there, and Kitty St. Clair, and Mrs. Merton 
Sendamore, and Madamoiselle Anastasie Mignault, of the French opera com- 
pany. Of the other sex, besides Odin, there would be Jack Philpot, Vandermeer 
Ten Stryke, whose father had left him seven millions, and the Marquis de Thri- 
dace, who was said to have fought seventeen duels, and to have eloped with a 
dozen women. After the lunch they were to take a grand sleighride in the Park, 
and finish the evening with the theatre and a champagne supper. All this on one 
side, and Maurice and Juliet's turkey and mince-pies on the other. 



4o6 BEST TPIINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"I'm afraid I must go," he said, the hght fading from his face and the 
resonance from his voice. "I have an appointment at three o'clock." 

"Odin, don't say so!" exclaimed Maurice, with an accent of consternation, 

"Oh, Mr. Moore, you are joking !" cried Juliet, setting the soup-tureen down 
with a thump and gazing at him with a startled look. 

"I would much rather stay here," said Odin, "but " 

"This is the first Christmas dinner Juliet and I have had together," inter- 
rupted Maurice. "It will not be Christmas if you go." 

"You take all my appetite away," added Juliet, the corners of her mouth 
drooping. 

"God bless you both! — then I will stay!" exclaimed Odin, the blood rushing 
into his face. "You are the first people who ever cared what I did!" 

It was long since he had felt such a genuine and pure emotion. To be liked 
— to be thought well of — and by such persons as Maurice and Juliet — seemed too 
good news to be true. "You do not deserve it," said a voice within him. "But 
I will try to deserve it," he answered himself, "and their belief will help me." 

Happiness was now restored, and was all the brighter for the brief inter- 
ruption. Such Christmas cheer as those three friends derived from their turkey 
and mince-pies was not to be paralleled in New York. They ate and talked and 
laughed ; and the Croton water tasted better than champagne ; and after dinner 
Odin made some exquisite black coflfee, which filled the room with a delicious 
aroma, and was just the right thing after the pie. Finally they cleared the table 
and washed the dishes ; and then Maurice proposed that they should have some 
singing. Odin had a fine bass voice ; but he reflected what song he would 
probably be singing at that moment had he been in the private room of the 
uptown hotel, with Mile. Anastasie and the rest of them ; and the thought turned 
him cold. But Juliet's pure soprano, supported by her husband's baritone, 
launched out with Milton's Christmas hymn ; and after a verse or two had been 
sung, Odin's deep tones joined them. It seemed as if his innocent youth were 
come again, as the sublime words made music in the little room. By the time the 
hymn was finished, the short day was over, and twilight had come. Odin again 
rose to go. 

"We can't give you leave of absence for some time yet !" said Maurice, 
promptly pushing him back into his chair. "Now comes a matter of business. 
You remember those poems that I mentioned in my letter? Well, you must 
hear me read some of them, and give me your opinion." 

"Oh, I'm so glad !" exclaimed Juliet. "No one has heard them yet but I, and 
Maurice is afraid to believe what I say of them. But we shall both believe you !" 

So saying, she lighted the lamp, and Maurice, with the simplicity of a boy 
and the eloquence of a lover, began to read from his manuscript. Odin sat on 



JULIAN HAWTHORNE 407 

the sofa, and Juliet on a chair behind her husband. When a noble or beautiful 
passage was read, her eyes would seek Odin's, and his smile and nod brought 
the joyful glow to her cheeks and eyes. They were indeed such poems as a 
man might wish his dearest friend to write. 

;f: * :|= * * * * 

This was the beginning of a new life for Odin Moore. He had been lonely 
and unsatisfied till now. His mother had died when he was a child, and brothers 
or sisters he had none. His father was poor, and the son had passed an arid 
and comfortless youth. He studied law, and, for several years, worked hard for 
small returns. Comparatively late in life he had fallen passionately in love with 
a woman beautiful in form and feature, and of an afifectionate but feeble-willed 
nature. His rival was his own cousin, a wealthy merchant by the name of Philip 
Graham. The parents of the girl strongly supported Graham's suit, and she 
allowed herself to be influenced by them. Her marriage gave a sinister turn to 
Odin's career ; and she herself was scarcely less unhappy than he. After the 
lapse of a year of wedded life, circumstances obliged her husband to go to 
England on a business errand, and he left his wife behind him. What happened 
then was never certainly known to any one save Odin and herself : enough to 
say that it was the deepest and most passionate experience of both their lives. 
At length a letter was received from Graham announcing his speedy return. 
Four days after its arrival Mrs. Graham died. Had she lived, no doubt her secret 
and Odin's would have been declared. Odin was left to await the husband's 
return. But the husband never came. On the day of his wife's death, his vessel 
had collided with another on the ocean, and only a dozen survivors, among whom 
he was not numbered, reached New York. 

He left a large property, of which Odin, his enemy, but also his nearest 
living relative, was heir. His papers were searched for a will, but only the draft 
of one was found, unsigned and unattested, which bequeathed his fortune to his 
wife and sister-in-law, who was then a mere child and of whom Odin knew 
nothing. The family attempted to set up a claim under this document, but it 
was not allowed, and Odin became a rich man. For the sin that he had sinned, 
the secret of which was known to no living mortal but himself, this was the pun- 
ishment ! 

The power and the luxury that he had always craved were become his at 
the moment when the only being with whom he would have cared to share them 
was taken from the world. Odin was completely demoralized, and grasped at 
whatever pleasure of whatever kind was within his reach. He had a grievance 
against Providence, as well as against the world. He fell into evil ways, and was 
haunted by evil thoughts and influences. And yet there was in him the making 
of a noble and useful man. 



4o8 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The unexpected meeting with the Matlocks was like a sudden opening of 
heaven through the clouds. Odin's temperament w^as naturally reverent and re- 
ligious, and he believed this w^as a last effort of his Creator to redeem him. They 
were the only people on earth who believed him to be all that his best ambition 
had aimed to make him. Their other acquaintances in New York were very few, 
and none of these knew anything about Odin Moore, so that there was no danger 
of their learning anything of his past history. For his part, he cut loose, entirely 
and at once, from all his recent associations and companions. He lived wholly 
for the Matlocks. In a hundred ways, with and without their knowledge, he 
helped and befriended them. Maurice's book was published, and was an imme- 
diate success ; and by that, and by Odin's effort, a way was opened to him to 
get permanent and profitable employment. Prosperity came to them more and 
more ; happiness was theirs always ; and it was to Odin, under God, that their 
truest and warmest love and thanks were given. 

And during all this time the gloomy phantom who had haunted Odin's soli- 
tude had not once approached him. 

December came round again, and one evening, as was his custom, Odin went 
up to pass an hour with his friends. He found them looking over a box of 
papers. 

"What have you got there?" he demanded, cheerfully, drawing up a chair. 
"Are you looking for the title-deeds to an estate in Eldorado ?" 

"We have found something very like it," replied Maurice, with a laugh. 
"If this paper had been signed, Juliet would have been a great heiress." 

"But then, perhaps, you wouldn't have married me!" said Juliet, laying her 
cheek on his shoulder. 

Odin took up the document and glanced over it. He recognized it almost 
immediately. It was the unsigned will of Philip Graham. 

"What has this to do with you ?" he asked, laying it down again. 

"Mrs. Graham was my sister," replied Juliet. "She was nearly ten years 
older than I, and married a rich man. They both died suddenly, about the same 
time. This will shows that he meant to leave his money to her and me ; but it 
couldn't be legally proved, so some relative of his stepped in and got everything. 
I think he might have given me a little, just to help Maurice along a little." 

"We have got Odin," said Maurice, "and he is better than a dozen fortunes." 

"Why, where are you gomg?" exclaimed Juliet, as Odin turned away and 
took up his hat. "Supper will be ready in a minute. You must stay." 

"Another time," was all that Odin could say ; and he went out. 

What became of him during the next few hours, he never knew. At mid- 
night he found himself at the door of his lodgings. As he entered his room, he 



JULIAN HAWTHORNE 409 

glanced with an instinctive foreboding at the easy-chair by the fireplace. Yes : 
the well-remembered figure was there once more. 

"After all, then, your sin has found you out !" it seemed to say. 

"I have decided what to do," returned Odin. "To-morrow I will have a deed 
executed, giving her half my property." 

"Do you suppose she would accept it without an explanation? And are 
you ready to explain?" 

"I had not thought of that!" said Odin, with a shudder. "No, no! Well, 
then, I will have a will drawn, and bequeath it " 

The face smiled. "Are you certain they will outlive you? And, in the 
meanwhile, on what footing will you associate with them — as a benefactor, or as a 
pensioner?" 

Odin groaned. "What can I do, then?" 

"You can confess !" was the reply. 

"Confess?" cried Odin. "Tell them all the secret of my wickedness with 
my own lips ? Destroy all their belief in me, and love for me, which I have been 
building up this year past ? Cut myself ofi from all future hope and happiness ? 
I cannot ! I will not ! It would be as great a wrong to them as to me !" 

"You can confess ; but you will not because you dare not !" said the voice 
quietly. "Your honesty is at an end ; you will henceforth live the life of a liar 
and a thief towards those whom you call your friends. It is as I said : the evil is 
not in your circumstances, but in you." 

Odin fell on his knees, and bent his forehead till it touched the floor. It 
was a struggle such as no life can bear but once. "Help! help!" he muttered, 
again and again. "O God, help!" 

* ^: ;|: * * * * 

The next day was Christmas Eve. Odin spent the morning at a lawyer's, 
where he had a will made, signed and witnessed, leaving all property he should die 
possessed of to Maurice Matlock. He had restrained his first impulse to make 
Juliet his legatee. Those who can read his heart may know why. This will 
was merely a precautionary measure. He had made up his mind what to do. 

He purposed taking an elevated train uptown. As he reached the ticket- 
window, a train came up to the station, where a confused crowd of persons was 
waiting. They thronged together, trying to force their way on the car platforms. 
Odin was belated, and was about to desist from the attempt, when he all at once 
caught sight of Juliet. She was clinging to the closed wicket of one of the plat- 
forms, which had been closed upon her as she was about jto step on the train. 
The train was already in motion, and she evidently feared to step of¥ again. 

Odin sprang forward, scattering all before him. He got to the wicket while 
the car was still a score of yards from the end of the station. Grasping it with 



410 r.l-ST 'rillNH^S l-ROM AMI-.RIC.W l.lTKRATrKE 

owe liaiul, lu" passed the tUlior arm round Juliet's waist, ami with a mii;-hty effort 
swuu-; hei- sate o\er the wieket ami on the platt'onu of th.e ear. At the same 
uiomeut his shouKler eame mi eoutaet with the railing at the end of the station, 
his hand slipped, he felt himself phm_L;in^ downward lhrou!.;h the air. There was 
a ileadly shoek, and he knew no more. 

r>ut. in the depths of that abyss of uneonseiousness, tireams by and by came 
to him: he thoui^iit he heard the sound of distant Net familiar voices: light glim- 
mered before his eyes: then he was in a well-known room, autl faces — two faces 
that he lo\ ed bent over him. 

"Musi he die. Mamiee?" said Juliet. 

"1 would i;i\e m\ life to save him," Maurice answered; "but it camiot be." 

"Ood bless him! lie was a friend indeed! We shall never know another 
man so noble and so generous," said Juliet, sobbing. 

Odin tried to speak, but cou\d not. Heath had prevented his confession; 
but he felt at iK\ice, for in death he saw the mercy of God. He would not be 
forced to grieve those jnire souls that loved him, by the story of his sin. Vet. 
b\- his death, right would be (.lone to them. Darkness closed around him again: 
but in its depths lie saw glinunering the holy light of forgiveness. 

It was Chiistmas morning. 




BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 41 



IN SCHOOL-DAYS 

BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

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414 BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 




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BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 415 

A DETAIL 

BY STEPHEN CRANE 

HE tiny old lady in the black dress and curious little black bonnet 
had at first seemed alarmed at the sound made by her feet upon the 
stone pavements. But later she forgot all about it, for she suddenly 
came into the tempest of the Sixth avenue shopping district, where 
from the streams of people and vehicles went up a roar like that 
from headlong mountain torrents. 

She seemed then like a chip that catches, recoils, turns, and wheels, a re- 
luctant thing in the clutch of the impetuous river. She hesitated, faltered, de- 
bated with herself. Frequently she seemed about to address people ; then of a 
sudden she would evidently lose her courage. Meanwhile the torrent jostled 
her, swung her this and that way. 

At last, however, she saw two young women gazing in at a shop window. 
They were well-dressed girls ; they wore gowns with enormous sleeves that made 
them look like full-rigged ships with all sails set. They seemed to have plenty 
of time ; they leisurely scanned the goods in the window. Other people had 
made the tiny old woman much afraid, because obviously they were speeding 
to keep such tremendously important engagements. She went close to them 
and peered in at the same window. She watched them furtively for a time. 
Then finally she said: "Excuse me!" The girls looked down at this old face 
with its two large eyes turned toward them. "Excuse me, but can you tell me 
where I can get any work ?" 

For an instant the two girls stared. Then they seemed about to exchange a 
smile, but, at the last moment, they checked it. The tiny old lady's eyes were 
upon them. She was quaintly serious, silently expectant. She made one marvel 
that in that face the wrinkles showed no trace of experience, knowledge ; they 
were simply little, soft, innocent creases. As for her glance, it had the trustful- 
ness of ignorance and the candor of babyhood. 

"I want to get something to do, because I need the money," she continued, 
since in their astonishment they had not replied to her first question. "Of course, 
I'm not strong and I couldn't do very much, but I can sew well, and in a house 
where there was a good many men folks I could do all the mending. Do you 
know any place where they would like me to come?" 

The young women did then exchange a smile, but it was a subtly tender 
smile, the verge of personal grief. 



4i6 



BEST THINGS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE 



"Well, no, madam," hesitatingly said one of them at last. "I don't think I 
know any one." 

A shade passed over the tiny old lady's face, a shadow of the wing of disap- 
pointment. "Don't you?" she said, with a little struggle to be brave in her voice. 

Then the girl hastily continued : "But if you will give me your address, I 
may find some one, and if I do, I will surely- let you know of it." 

The tiny old lady dictated her address, bending over to watch the girl write 
on a visiting card with a little silver pencil. Then she said: "I thank you very 
much." She bowed to them, smiling, and went on down the avenue. 

As for the two girls, they went to the curb and watched this aged figure, 
small and frail, in its black gown and curious black bonnet. At last, the crowd, 
the innumerable wagons, intermingling and changing with uproar and riot, sud- 
denlv engulfed it. 




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